Elf Interludes
by Elf Eye
Summary: This will be a companion piece to "Elfling Interludes." It will be a place for one-shot stories about Legolas as an adult. It may be considered part of the "Nameless One" series because in it Legolas will be cast as Aragorn's foster brother.
1. Chapter 1: Humans

**Episode 1: Humans**

"Humans," groaned Legolas. He threw aside the bedclothes and sat up. The moon cast a bar of light upon the floor, its tip coming to rest upon a muddy boot. "Humans," repeated Legolas, turning to look at Aragorn, who lay sleeping soundly, his mouth open. Legolas wrinkled up his face as he noticed that the pillow beneath the Man's stubbly cheek was damp. Then he grinned as he remembered a rhyme Elrohir had loved to chant when he was younger. "Humans drool; Elves rule," the young Elf would sing when human traders or ambassadors came to Imladris. Of course, Elrohir had grown up and no longer uttered such foolishness. Still, it _was_ true that Men drooled.

Legolas glanced again at Aragorn. 'Yes', he thought to himself, 'Humans do drool. They also snore and stink. I think I would rather share a bed with a Dwarf. A Dwarf would be smaller; the odor would therefore be the less'.

Legolas was not being logical, as he would have conceded had he been pressed upon the subject. A polecat, for example, is small, yet stinks all out of proportion to its size. Still, Legolas could be forgiven his specious reasoning. He had been looking forward to a good night's sleep at a comfortable inn after a long march but now found that rest was denied him. Sighing, he drew his legs up. Clasping his arms about them, he rested his chin upon his knees. He sat hunched in that position until his back began to ache. Then he stretched out beneath the bedclothes again, lying upon his back and staring up at a dragon-shaped stain upon the ceiling. Finding that this dragon did nothing interesting, after a few minutes he turned onto his side and curled up. In the midst of this maneuver, his elbow struck Aragorn's chest.

"Mmph," muttered the Man, who rolled away from the offending limb. As he did so, his body became entangled in the bedclothes, which were yanked clean off the Elf. Legolas was not cold, but he yanked back on principle. He regained a share of the bedding, but Aragorn came with it, rolling back toward the Elf and fetching up against him. Soon Legolas found himself clinging to a narrow strip of mattress at the edge of the bed.

"Aragorn, you're taking too large a share of the bed," Legolas complained. There was no answer but a snore. The Elf poked the Man and tried again. "Aragorn, you're squashing me!" Aragorn made a snorting noise that reminded Legolas of the grunts of the feral pigs that roamed the scrublands of Dunland. The Elf tried not to giggle at the thought, but the harder he tried, the more ridiculous his predicament seemed. He began to shake with suppressed laughter, and before too long the inevitable happened: he found himself sliding off the edge of the bed.

Legolas landed with an inelegant thump, but as Aragorn continued fast asleep, there was no one to witness his discomfiture. Sprawled upon the floor, the Elf looked up at the bed, from which Aragorn's arm now dangled. He gave a shrug of resignation. Aragorn was heavier than he; this was one battle he could not win. He arose and went to the door. It was a mild night, the moon was now near setting, and the sky clear. It would be a good night for stargazing. Holding his shoes in his hand—the muddy boots were Aragorn's—Legolas slipped quietly from the room. Behind him Aragorn muttered in his sleep.

Once outside, Legolas watched as the moon's disc slid beneath the horizon. The night was now at its darkest, and the Elf studied the stars, picking out the constellations that he had learned as a child. "The ship Vingilot," he murmured, "sailed by Eärendil the Mariner. There is the star that marks the Silmaril that is bound unto his brow."

Near Vingilot flew Thorondor the Eagle, as was fitting, for together they had helped the Valar defeat Morgoth's dragon armada during the War of Wrath. Facing Vingilot and Thorondor was their foe, Ancalagon the Black, greatest of all winged dragons. His head was downmost, in token of his defeat. Eärendil had slain Ancalagon, and his body had plummeted onto the mountains of Thangorodrim. The spines of Morgoth's mountains had been shattered by his fall.

Legolas turned to look for the other dragon constellations. There was the ancestor of all dragons, Glaurung the Golden, a beautiful name for a deadly worm that had ravaged Beleriand for centuries before being slain by Túrin son of Húrin. But Túrin's sister had named her brother the master of doom by doom mastered. For a spell of Glaurung rendered Túrin and his sister unable to recognize one another, and they grew enamored of each other and wed. When she learned the truth, Turin's sister slew herself, and a despairing Túrin impaled himself upon his own sword. The weapon could be seen in the sky beneath Glaurung.

Not far from Glaurung was Scatha the Worm. A cold-drake but as deadly as his fiery cousins, Scatha had been the scourge of both Men and Dwarves. It was a Man who slew him, Fram, ancestor of Eorl the Young, first ruler of Rohan. Afterward the Dwarves and Men had quarreled over Scatha's hoard. The dragon had stolen his gold from the Dwarves, but it was a Man who slew the worm, and Men had therefore claimed a share of the wealth. Fram's folk succeeded in wresting at least some of the gold from the hoard, but their leader fell in battle. Legolas shook his head. Foolish Men, to quarrel over golden baubles when lives are more precious.

A light streaking across the sky interrupted Legolas's ruminations. It was followed by another and another. "The Valar weep," the Elf murmured. "I wonder what grievous crime has been committed this night."

A branch snapped behind him. Legolas spun about. As he did so, his hand went to his belt. To his chagrin, the Elf realized that he had left the room without any weapons. He stared intently at the darkness beneath the nearby trees. He saw nothing, but he sensed that someone or something lurked behind a tree trunk. That the person or creature did not show itself did not bode well. Keeping his face toward the forest, the Elf slowly began to back toward the inn. Then he heard a noise from his left. It was the sound of a pebble rolling under a foot, and it was joined by a sound on his right, the crunch of a leaf trodden upon by a heavy boot. Next he heard the most distressing sound of all, a footfall directly behind him. "Aragorn?" he said softly, even though in his heart he knew it was not his friend. The answering laugh confirmed his fears.

"Aragorn, eh?" the voice mocked. "Is that the name of your fellow-traveler? Don't hold his liquor well, that one. He looked right smashed after one pint."

"He was weary, not drunk," Legolas defended his friend.

"Weary. Drunk. It's all one. He ain't here. Likely snoring like a bear in winter." Legolas tried not to show his distress at the aptness of the latter observation, but the Man chortled. "I'm right, ain't I?" he sneered.

Four Men had come out of the darkness, and Legolas tried to size them up without appearing to do so. The one behind him spoke in stentorian syllables, and if his size matched his voice, he had a considerable advantage in weight over the Elf. The one to the right carried a cudgel, but he was young and looked frightened. The one to the left brandished a knife, but more impressive in size was the gut that the Man lugged. Legolas did not think the pudgy Man would be able to wield the knife to any great effect. The Man in front of Legolas, however, was fit, and he bore an axe. Still, the Elf thought that if he could get his hands upon a weapon, he might disarm his foes, for he was a trained warrior, and they were not.

'It is four against one,' he said to himself, 'but I shall try to put them off their guard. Then I shall seize the cudgel. I expect it will be easy to take it from the boy. A wooden rod may not be much good against an axe, but only if the Man wielding it manages to strike the cudgel. I warrant I am better at feinting than the axe man, and if I get past his guard and land one or two blows on his pate, that will be the end of him. As we scuffle, the pudgy Man will circle about us unsure what to do, although he will make up his mind quickly enough once I have got the axe. He will take to his heels, I have no doubt. That leaves the Man behind me. When I seize the cudgel, I must be sure to spring aside so that I may keep him in sight'.

Legolas began to put his plan into effect. "I am only one," he said, trying to placate the Men. "As you have pointed out, my friend is asleep within. Whatever you want, I will yield it. I am no fool and will do what I must."

"It's you we want," retorted the Man behind him.

"I have gold in my purse," Legolas said quickly, feeling the Man draw nearer. He wished to pivot to face him, but at the same time he did not want to turn his back on the Man with the axe. "One of your friends has a knife. Let him hold it to my throat as I return to my chamber to fetch my purse."

"We will see to your gold later—after you are dead. I don't reckon your friend will object. Indeed, we will do him a kindness. We will cure his snoring by cutting his throat."

"Why do you want to kill me? I have done nothing to you."

"You are an Elf," spat the hidden Man.

"Why should that offend you?"

"Your kind slew my kin."

"We are at peace with the Men hereabouts," objected Legolas.

"We don't hale from hereabouts. We are from Dunland."

Dunland. The treaty with the Dunlendings had lately been broken by renegade Men, and the Elves had had no choice but to defend themselves when assailed by raiders. Legolas doubted that his would-be murderers would see matters from his point of view, however. He suspected that Saruman the Honey-voiced had persuaded the renegades to consider themselves ill-used by the Elves. He tried another tack.

"You think me your enemy because I am an Elf, and I doubt I can convince you otherwise. My friend, though, is no Elf. Surely you do not wish to slay an innocent Man."

"The friend of my enemy is my enemy," the Man said, quoting a proverb that among Men was as common as it was nonsensical.

By now Legolas had decided that he had better go for the axe straightaway. His muscles tensed as he prepared to leap forward, but before he could do so he was struck hard between the shoulder blades. He was borne to the ground, stunned, for he had thought that the hidden Man had meant to taunt him a little further before slaying him. He felt no pain, but it seemed to him that a heavy weight pinned him to the ground.

'It does not hurt to die', he thought in surprise, 'but I did not expect the Halls of Mandos to smell so foul'.

Dazedly, he tried to lift his head but gasped as he gazed into the dead eyes of the Man with the axe. Nearby he heard the gibbering voice of a youth. "Please don't slay me, Master," the boy was crying. "I only took up with these Men because I have no kin."

By now Legolas's head had cleared, and he understood that he was pinned down by a body, doubtless that of the Man who had been standing behind him. He struggled to crawl clear of it, at the same time crying out for mercy on behalf of the boy. "Hold, friend," he exclaimed. "The lad had only a staff. Surely you would not slay someone merely for the crime of carrying about a support for his weary steps."

"Staff? Looks like a cudgel to me," came the reply.

"Aragorn!" cried Legolas. Freeing himself at last from the stinking carcass of his would-be murderer, the Elf arose. His friend held the boy by the collar, but as Legolas watched, the Ranger dropped the arm holding his knife, which had been pressed against the boy's throat. To the other Dunlendings, however, he had shown no mercy. All three were sprawled dead upon the ground, their blood sinking into the soil.

"Now I've spared him, what shall I do with him?" Aragorn asked dryly. "He says he has no kin; now he has no friends, neither—such as they were."

"When we stabled our packhorse, the ostler was complaining that he didn't have enough help. Perhaps he'll take the lad on."

"You hear that, boy?" said Aragorn, turning the youngster so that he had to look the Ranger full in the face. "Would you be willing to muck out stables? You'd be sure of your meals."

"I'd rather muck out stables than lie in the muck," the boy replied earnestly, gesturing at the bodies of his erstwhile companions.

"Likely you'll have to sleep in the hayloft," warned Aragorn.

"I've slept in worse places," the youngster replied. "And the horses will smell better than he ever did."

The boy pointed at the body that had fallen upon Legolas. The Elf grimaced. "I can testify to the truth of that statement," he said wryly. "Aragorn, compared to him, you smell like a meadow in springtime."

By now the sky was turning gray with the approach of dawn, and the ostler emerged to see to the horses. After many expressions of dismay at the sight of bodies in the yard, he agreed to take on the boy, who was at once given the task of digging a common grave for his former comrades. "Soil's pretty soft over there," said the ostler, pointing to a corner of the yard. "Used to be a latrine."

Legolas wrinkled up his nose, although he knew that the soil of a long-abandoned privy was as inoffensive as ordinary loam. Aragorn laughed at him. "You are too fastidious," he grinned as they returned to their chamber. He threw himself upon the bed. "I am going to turn in again," he announced. "Lucky for you I am such a light sleeper, but not so lucky for me."

"You are _not_ a light sleeper!" protested Legolas.

"Indeed I am! I sensed when you left the room. Had I not, _you_ might have been destined for a resting place as ignominious as the one those fellows found."

Legolas considered pointing out that Aragorn had 'sensed' his departure long after it had occurred, but he decided that any attempt at argument would be fruitless.

"You ought to rest as well, Legolas," the Ranger continued. "You look very tired. Silly of you to be up and about at night. Whatever were you doing?"

"Stargazing," Legolas replied shortly.

"There's an Elf for you—stargazing when he ought to be recovering from a long march. _I_ am not so foolish. _I _sleep whenever I am able."

"And very able you are in that department," Legolas muttered under his breath as he removed his shoes and set them neatly by the wall, where no one would trip over them. Aragorn had already begun to snore by the time the Elf crawled into bed. 'Perhaps I ought to warn Arwen about this habit of his', Legolas thought to himself. 'She is in for a rude awakening, I think'. Smiling at his own pun, Legolas pulled the covers up and tried to immerse himself in dream.

"Humans," groaned Legolas a half hour later, staring balefully up at the bed, from whose edge dangled Aragorn's arm. "Humans!"


	2. Chapter 2: Interruptions

**My narrative sometimes tracks Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I have not replied to all my reviewers yet, but I will catch up this weekend. Meanwhile, I would like to thank the following reviewers of Episode 1 of Elf Interludes**_**:**_

_**Joee1, leralonde, vectis, Lady Ambreanna, Dragonsofliberty, Foxgurl0000, Elfinabottle, **_**and **_**CAH**_**.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from **_**The Hobbit**_** and from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Lord of the Rings.**_

**This incident takes place in Mirkwood after Legolas has returned from being fostered in Elrond's household. However, it has to be considered AU to the AU of the Nameless One series. (I guess that makes it AU-squared.) In the Nameless One series, Legolas had not yet returned to Mirkwood at the point at which Frodo and the Dwarves are bumbling about Mirkwood. In fact, Legolas fights with Elrond's forces during the Battle of Dol Guldur, which takes place the same year that Frodo finds the Ring. At this point, Thranduil is not even aware that Legolas is still alive.  
**

**Vocabulary**

**gwador-nín—my brother (Sindarin)**

**Merilin—Nightingale (Sindarin)**

**Episode 2: A Series of Unfortunate Interruptions**

"Merilin, I swear that we won't be missed," Legolas whispered.

"You are certain?"

"Look at them," said Legolas, gesturing at the Mirkwood Elves who were singing and dancing around the bonfire in the middle of the clearing. "Do they look as if they will notice that their number is reduced by two?"

Merilin hesitated for a moment before replying. "No-o," she said at last. "No, I suppose they won't."

Legolas at once seized her hand and led her away from the clearing, out of the circle of light cast by the fire. He knew a spot in the forest that was thickly carpeted by moss. Unerringly he led Merilin thence. Upon this carpet he spread his cloak, and Merilin reclined upon it, smiling up at him shyly. Legolas sat beside her, holding and caressing her hand. They murmured soft words to one another for a time. At last with her free hand Merilin made a small welcoming gesture and Legolas lay down beside her. They lay facing each other for a time, and then Legolas boldly rolled over until he lay atop her, their faces only inches apart. Merilin blushed a little, but she did not protest. Legolas's lips hovered above hers, and he shifted to close the gap. Their lips were on the verge of touching…a tiny fraction of an inch…

Crash! Suddenly something or someone blundered through the brush and fell heavily upon them. "Oomph!" gasped Legolas. The thing or person rolled off them and blundered off.

"What was _that_?" exclaimed Merilin, sitting up so abruptly that Legolas fell back upon his bottom.

"I couldn't say," replied Legolas. "I didn't get a good look at it."

"Do you suppose," said Merilin nervously, "that we ought to return to the clearing?"

"Let me think," said Legolas, stalling for time. As the Prince of Mirkwood, he very rarely found himself in the presence of an unchaperoned female. Indeed, it might not happen for another decade—or three or four.

"Whatever it was," he said at last, "it didn't seem interested in us. Let us withdraw a little ways from this spot, and perhaps it will not disturb us again."

Legolas picked up his cloak and led Merilin a little further into the woods. He found another opening in the forest and again spread out his cloak. When they lay down, they discovered that it was not as good a spot as the previous one. Several roots dug into their backs, and Legolas's buttocks were positioned uncomfortably close to a bramble. Nevertheless, they were soon in the same position as formerly, Legolas's lips hovering over hers. The two leaned toward each other, their lips at last touching—

Crash!

Merilin shrieked, and Legolas found himself trying to wriggle out of the brambles. Nearby a dark sharp muttered imprecations in a strange tongue and then vanished.

"What _was_ that!?" cried Merilin.

"A bear cub?" Legolas ventured.

"It _spoke_, Legolas. Bear cubs do not speak."

"It spoke no language _I_ recognized. Likely it _was_ a bear cub."

"Do you know every tongue spoken in Middle-earth?" Merilin said tartly.

"No, but I am familiar with quite a few."

"But not every one?"

"No," conceded Legolas. "Not every one."

"So you must allow that it could have spoken. Legolas, let us return to the others."

"Merilin," Legolas said desperately, "if the creature wanted to hurt us, it has had two opportunities and took advantage of neither. Let us remove hence. Surely it will not disturb us a third time!"

"Very well," Merilin agreed reluctantly.

Legolas again picked up his cloak and led Merilin a little bit further into the woods. The spot that he settled upon was well hidden but was in some respects worse than the previous one, bestrewn as it was with rocks. Legolas cleared away as many as he could find and folded his cloak double, so that there was only room for Merilin to lie upon it. Ignoring the rocks that threatened to bruise him, Legolas returned to his former pursuit. At first Merilin kept looking about, but at length she began to focus upon her wooer, and the two stared into each other's eyes and cooed the foolishness of the young. Legolas bent his head toward his belovéd, lips inching toward lips, and—

Crash!

Legolas groaned and flopped back upon the ground, a rock digging into his back. Soon it was likely to be the only hard thing about him, he thought despairingly.

"I think we should return to the others," Merilin said firmly.

Legolas wilted, so to speak. Struggling to his feet, he reached down and helped Merilin to hers.

Silently, the couple trudged back toward the clearing. To their bewilderment, when they arrived they found it deserted. Listening carefully, they heard distant voices. The pair hurried toward the sound, at last arriving at another clearing. There they found the other Elves in an uproar. "We have been interrupted again and again by strange creatures," one complained. "We were in the midst of a lively dance when they rushed toward our fire. Of course, we extinguished it at once and removed to another clearing, but the creatures followed us. We have removed several times, with the same result."

"This is intolerable," stormed Legolas, who of course had more reason to be irate than his fellows could have guessed. "We shall not be driven about our own forest! The next time these creatures rush our folk, we must capture them. Let us lure them in. Rekindle the fire and resume the celebration."

The Elves began to once more dance and sing about the bonfire, but their hearts were no longer merry. Distractedly, they looked ever and anon toward the forest and so failed to move with their accustomed grace. More than one Elf trod upon the heels of his fellows. At last, however, Legolas's stratagem bore fruit. Strange creatures rushed into the clearing. This time the Elves did not flee but rather pounced upon the interlopers. In short order the trespassers were surrounded by a band of indignant Elves. Legolas held up a burning brand and examined them. To his astonishment he saw before him thirteen Dwarves. They were ragged and skinny (skinny for Dwarves, anyway).

"Why do you trouble us?" Legolas demanded.

"We are hungry," replied a Dwarf who looked a little grander than the others, a feat not difficult to accomplish given what a sad state they were in. "We have been lost in the forest these several days."

"You shouldn't have come into the forest in the first place," replied Legolas brusquely. "If you hadn't entered the forest, you should not have gotten lost, and if you hadn't gotten lost, you wouldn't be hungry." Legolas's logic may have been impeccable, but his store of sympathy was inadequate for the occasion. However, given that he had lately been disappointed in love, perhaps his peevishness was to be expected.

The Dwarves offered apologies and explanations and pleaded that the Elves would aid them or, if they would not, at least allow them to go on their way. Nothing would avail, however. Against the Dwarves' pleas Legolas hardened his heart in lieu of another portion of his anatomy that he would have preferred to have found in a state of hardness. "Take them to my father," he ordered angrily.

The Elves bound the Dwarves' hands behind their backs and led them to the Great Hall of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood. Unfortunately for the Dwarves, the King, like his son, was in a poor frame of mind. Thranduil had just received news of an incursion of Orcs from the south—and this in spite of the fact that a combined force of Lórien, Imladris, and Mirkwood Elves had succeeded in driving the Necromancer from Dol Guldur.

"I thought that the whole point of that exercise was to bring safety to our southern border," he grumbled to his Seneschal, Gilglîr

"The campaign reduced the threat," Gilglîr replied, "but it would be unreasonable to expect it to have eliminated the threat entirely."

"_I_ don't think it would have been unreasonable," the King retorted.

It was at that moment that Legolas stalked into the chamber bearing news of an invasion of another sort—thirteen ragged and skinny Dwarves who had disturbed an elven celebration. The Dwarves were led into the Presence Chamber, and Thranduil grew angrier and angrier as the Dwarves failed to give a satisfactory account of themselves. Their purpose for journeying through Mirkwood they refused to divulge. "Very well," Thranduil huffed at last. "You asked that we accommodate you, and accommodate you we shall—in the dungeon! Perhaps by tightening the screws on you we shall loosen your tongues!"

Of course, this was just a manner of speaking. Thranduil had no intention of ordering his gaolers to apply thumbscrews to the Dwarves. Indeed, his gaolers did not possess such instruments. In fact, for all Thranduil's blustering, the Dwarves were not mistreated. They were furnished with sufficient bedding and with food that, if plain, was nonetheless plentiful. Legolas himself was given the task of seeing to their welfare. Every few days the Prince of Mirkwood descended to the dungeon to see that the cells were dry and clean. On these occasions it irked him that the Dwarves did not appear to be grateful for the prodigious good care that was taken of them. One Dwarf in particular seemed to lack all understanding of how favored they were to be lodged and fed at the King's expense. This particularly argumentative Dwarf railed at Legolas whenever he made his rounds.

"You expect me to feel_ obliged_ to you?" the Dwarf scoffed one day.

"Have you anything to complain of?" Legolas retorted.

"Let me think. Why, nothing in particular, I suppose—only that I am _locked up in a dungeon_!"

"Room and board entirely paid for," Legolas replied promptly. "Hasn't cost you so much as a farthing."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case, thank you _ever_ so much!" the Dwarf replied sardonically. "But remember this, you pointy-eared princeling: someday I shall have a son, and he shall repay you your courtesy. You shall have reason to recall Glóin the Dwarf, companion of Thorin Oakenshield!"

"I can't imagine ever being troubled by any son of _yours_!" Legolas replied haughtily. "He certainly won't match me in stature—no, not in either sense of the word. Besides, you shan't be siring a son as long as you continue to enjoy the hospitality of this Hall."

A few days later, both puzzled and chagrined, Legolas stared into an empty cell. Next to him stood Gilglîr. "I can't imagine how they could have slipped away," the Prince said to the Seneschal, "especially as they have grown stout—and at our expense, too!"

"We don't know how they got out of their cells," said Gilglîr, "but I suspect that they escaped the Hall itself through the river landing. The porters say that last night some barrels that they pushed off were remarkably heavy. They thought the casks had not been emptied."

Legolas was not impressed by the Dwarves' clever stratagem. "One of those wretched Naugrim called me a pointy-eared princeling," the Elf huffed.

"You are pointy-eared," Gilglîr said calmly, "and you are a princeling, so I reckon he was right."

"You would take his side, Gilglîr? For my part, I defy all Dwarves!"

"You should not condemn an entire race," replied Gilglîr. "Consider, Legolas, how many Dwarves there are in Middle-earth. Surely out of all that tribe there must be _one_ Dwarf whom you could respect—aye, even one with whom you could be friends!"

"I could never imagine either respecting or liking a Dwarf," Legolas said firmly.

"Then perhaps you ought to exercise your imagination more vigorously."

"It is a fantasy that I could befriend a Dwarf," Legolas said stubbornly. "A fantasy and a fiction, Gilglîr!"

"I have always enjoyed fiction," the Seneschal replied serenely. "Unicorns, phoenixes, basilisks—those are the sort of creatures I like to read about."

Legolas snorted. "Well, _I _prefer to keep my feet on the ground."

"Your feet on the ground," Gilglîr said dryly. "Odd expression for an Elf."

"It is a phrase I picked up from Men who frequented Imladris," Legolas said defensively. This conversation was making him uneasy. How could he explain his antipathy toward this particular band of Dwarves without embarrassing either himself or Merilin? Legolas colored, the blush extending to the tip of those pointy ears that Glóin had twitted him over. Gilglîr looked searchingly at him but said nothing. For now, both Elves were willing to let the matter drop.

Half a century later, in Rivendell, Legolas stood by the side of another Elf. "Folk continue to arrive for the Council," Elrond was saying. "Elves, Hobbits, Men, and Dwarves—all the Free Folk shall be represented at this conclave."

"Dwarves!" exclaimed Legolas, grimacing.

"Yes, Dwarves," Elrond said, keeping a straight face. "And among them is one who will claim an acquaintance with you."

"With me? I am not acquainted with any Dwarves."

"Your father's hospitality was once bestowed upon a company of Dwarves—they turned out to be friends of Mithrandir, I believe. This Dwarf was a member of that band."

Legolas looked uncomfortable.

"His name is Glóin," Elrond continued.

Legolas looked distressed.

"He has a son," Elrond added, smirking.

Legolas looked miserable.

His son is Gimli—and very like the father, I must say. Bold and brash, feisty and forthright. Gimli son of Glóin!"

"Alliteration," muttered Legolas. "I abhor alliteration." He didn't notice that he himself had just committed that linguistic lapse.

"And yonder he comes," concluded Elrond. "As you already know each other, introductions are unnecessary, and I shall leave you to resume your acquaintance."

With that Elrond strode away, still smirking. With a matching smirk, Glóin strolled up to the Prince. Legolas decided that, as Men say, the best defense is a good offense.

"You departed my father's Hall without ever thanking your host," he said accusingly.

"Your pardon," replied Glóin, grinning, "but time and tide wait for no Dwarf. Our vessels were ready, and we had no choice but to depart upon the instant."

"You got Galion the Butler into a great deal of trouble. He was responsible for safeguarding the keys to the dungeon."

"I _am_ sorry," Glóin said, speaking sincerely this time. Unfortunately, the Dwarf immediately spoiled the effect. "I hope," he added snidely, "that your father treated him more kindly that he treated _us_. By the by," he continued, "how does the lass fare?"

"The lass?"

"The one you were courting in the forest that night."

Legolas stared at him, aghast. "You-you-you," he spluttered.

"So much for the eloquence of Elves," Glóin said cheerfully.

It is fortunate that at that moment the bell for the noon meal rang, as the interview was clearly going from bad to worse. Fuming, Legolas stalked toward the Dining Hall, the Dwarf matching him stride for stride and whistling insouciantly. Once in the Hall, the Elf detached himself from his unwelcome companion and planted himself between Elladan and Elrohir.

"Whatever is the matter, gwador-nín?" asked Elladan. "Your ears are red to their very tips."

Legolas refused to say and stared fixedly at his plate, not looking up for fear he should meet the eye of Glóin, who was seated across the table in company with his son Gimli.

"An interesting turn of events," Gandalf said, surveying the scene from his seat beside Elrond.

"Yes," agreed the Elf lord. "I do hope, though, that you will not have Elf and Dwarf fighting with one another rather than with the foes that the Company shall have in common."

"I trust Legolas, and as Gimli is his father's son, I trust him as well. I need them both, Elrond. Moreover, if those two can come to an understanding, as I believe they shall, they will be a token of hope. If Dwarf and Elf can combine forces, then certainly there is nothing that cannot be achieved!"

"Indeed," Elrond said dryly. "I trust you are correct. If Dwarf and Elf can coexist, then surely all things are possible."

"Yes," said Gandalf, raising his glass in toast. "Yes, Elrond, I believe you are right. All things _are_ possible."

And so, beneath the vigilant—and hopeful—gazes of Elrond and Gandalf, the members of the Fellowship began to come together.


	3. Chapter 3: A Walk to Remember

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 2:**_**UwIllNevERn0, leralonde, vectis, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 3: A Walk to Remember**

Legolas winced and stopped, placing a hand upon a tree to steady himself. He only allowed himself a few minutes of rest, however, before leaning upon his stick and hobbling on. No matter how much pain he was in, he was determined to press on. Aragorn would die if he did not reach Rivendell.

The Elf had done the best he could for the Ranger before leaving him. He had bathed and bandaged the wound. He had filled their water skins, leaving both by the side of his friend, as well as all their provisions. He had neither the time nor the tools to bury the Orc who had injured Aragorn, but he dragged its body far enough away so its stench would not trouble the Dúnadan. And then he had begun to walk—limp, really—in the direction of Imladris.

After several hours of limping, the Elf had been forced to lean momentarily upon the tree, but then he had forged on, ignoring the blood that seeped through a make-shift bandage wrapped around his thigh. He came to a stream and knelt beside it, splashing water upon his face and drinking his fill. He unwound the blood-soaked bandage from his leg and tore another strip of cloth from his tunic. Tying the strip around his thigh, Legolas levered himself to his feet and pressed on.

Several hours later he pitched forward, his arms barely catching himself in time to keep his face from hitting the ground. His leg had given out. Even with the help of his staff, he could no longer walk.

Stifling a groan, the Elf got up upon his hands and knees and began to crawl. At first his way led him through the understory of the forest, which was covered with a mat of fallen leaves. When he came out from beneath the shelter of the trees, his way became harder. His knees ached, but he crawled on. He came to a rocky patch. He crawled on. His legging wore through over his left knee. He tore a strip from his tunic and tied it over the knee and crawled on. The legging over his right knee gave out. He tore another strip, bound it over the knee, and crawled on. The strips themselves wore away. He tore more strips from his tunic, until at last there were none left to tear. Then he cut off the lower portions of his leggings and bound them around his knees. When those gave out, he cut away the upper portions. The wound in his thigh was bleeding again, but he had no cloth left for a fresh bandage. He crawled on.

The last scraps of cloth that he bound over his knees at last were reduced to rags, and his bruised knees began to bleed. In the end his knees gave way in the same fashion as his leg had earlier. Gritting his teeth, Legolas began to pull himself forward by the strength of his arms alone. He clawed at the earth, pulling himself forward, extending his arms once again, pulling himself forward. Soon his fingers, too, were bleeding.

Many hours later, one Door Warden was replacing another at the entrance to Elrond's Great Hall. "What's that animal, there?" said the replacement, pointing toward something distant. The other Warden looked where he pointed. "It seems to move by wriggling," he exclaimed, "but it is much too wide to be a serpent!"

The two Wardens moved cautiously toward the creature but then broke into a run when they realized that it was an Elf—naked, dirty, bloody, but an Elf nonetheless.

"Estel," murmured the Elf as they knelt by him. "Estel."

"Run for Lord Elrond," ordered the first Door Warden. "Run as fast as you can!"

While his fellow ran for help, the first Door Warden remained by the side of Legolas, who was still trying to inch his way toward the Great Hall.

**************************************************

Legolas heard sounds, but they were muffled, as if his head were wrapped in a quilt. "Fifteen leagues," he thought he heard someone say. "Fifteen leagues!"

Legolas tried to form a word. "Estel," he croaked.

"Hush," someone soothed him. "Estel is safe."

Legolas forced his eyes open. He was in a bed. Mithrandir and Elrond stood beside the bed; Glorfindel and Erestor were at the foot of it. Elrond bent down and supported his head, and Mithrandir held a cup to his lips. Legolas sipped a little water, and then Elrond eased his head back onto the pillow.

"You found Estel," he murmured, speech coming a little easier now.

"He was easy enough to find," Glorfindel said. "You left a very clear trail."

"I did?"

"Blood. Scrabbled soil. Scraps of cloth. I am much obliged to you for making my task so easy."

"I wasn't even thinking of the trail. I just wanted to cover the distance as quickly as possible."

"Fifteen leagues," said Erestor, sounding awed. "Estel was fifteen leagues away. And you _crawled_."

"Not the whole distance," Legolas corrected modestly.

"Oh, of course not," Glorfindel said sardonically. "You only crawled _part_ of the way. The rest of the way you merely _limped_."

Legolas colored a little and then closed his eyes, for he was still very weary. Above him, his friends and mentors exchanged smiles. They knew that Legolas would not have stopped at crawling the entire distance—for his brother, his captain, his king.


	4. Chapter 4: The Never Ending Story

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I haven't replied to all my reviewers yet, but I'd like to acknowledge the following reviewers of Episode 3: JastaElf, vectis, Elfinabottle, **_**Dragonsofliberty, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit**_** and **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**Edenidhrin—New Year (Sindarin) **

**Tawarmaenas—Wood Craft (Sindarin)**

**Tuí (Tuiw)—Sprout, Bud (Sindarin)**

**Episode 4: The Never-Ending Story**

'Will these diplomats never cease making speeches?' Legolas thought glumly. Since returning to Mirkwood, he had had to sit through far too many of these interminable banquets. He picked up his goblet and lifted it to his mouth to disguise a yawn. By his side, his cousin Tawarmaenas grinned. "You should have been here the year your father hosted a delegation of Dwarves," he whispered. "Their stature may be short, but their speeches are long!"

'Dwarves!' Legolas said to himself. 'How could my father bear their presence in the Hall? I know he once threw a party of Dwarves in the dungeon—but to actually host a band!'

Tawarmaenas divined his thoughts. "Your father had no choice," he whispered. "They bore a letter from Elrond. Otherwise he would never have admitted them."

Legolas crinkled up his nose in a most unelvenly manner. He could never understand why Elrond permitted Dwarves to sully the environs of Imladris. Mithrandir, too, was unaccountably friendly toward the Naugrim. Well, perhaps not entirely unaccountably. The wizard and the Dwarves did have in common a fondness for pipe weed. Mayhap that explained why Mithrandir took pleasure in their company.

"Legolas," Thranduil interrupted his son's thoughts. "Our guests would like to hear how matters stand in the west. You have lately received letters from Elrond's sons, I believe."

"Yes, Adar," Legolas said, immediately assuming a serious expression. "Elladan and Elrohir have been patrolling the foothills of the Misty Mountains. They report that there have been no signs of our enemies for several months. This troubles them."

"Troubles them?" laughed one of the visitors, a Man from Lake-town come to the Great Hall to negotiate a trade agreement. "Why should the lack of trouble be troubling?"

"Our foes may be regrouping," Legolas replied, keeping his face impassive so as not to betray his impatience with the foolish Man. "Elrohir and Elladan are concerned because they lack clues as to our enemies' intentions."

The Man shrugged. "We at least have nothing to fear. Esgaroth has been at peace for many a year."

"What of dragons?" Tawarmaenas asked. "Do you not fear that someday a dragon like Smaug will swoop down upon your land?"

The Man laughed. "Only once did Smaug venture to attack Lake-town—and that was on account of some meddling Dwarves. Anyway, he's dead now, and no other dragon has been seen in these parts for many a year."

Legolas hid his astonishment. Were Men really so naïve as to believe that any situation would remain unchanged? It must be a result of their short lives, he decided. They did not remain in Middle-earth long enough to appreciate the reversals of fortunes, the turns of the wheel that plunged one people into the mire while lifting others far above it.

Thranduil again interrupted his son's thoughts by lifting his goblet and proposing a toast to his guests, each of whom reciprocated. Tawarmaenas looked a little tipsy after the sixth toast, but Legolas was unfazed by the strong wine. For decades he had been matching Elrohir cup for cup, so it would take more than the wine drunk in an evening of toasts to befuddle _his_ senses.

"Tawarmaenas," he whispered, "for each toast, take only a little sip."

His cousin nodded, but he had a silly grin on his face. At the next toast, the younger Elf hoisted his goblet and drained it. Legolas caught the eye of Gilglîr, his father's seneschal. He gestured with his head toward his cousin. Gilglîr followed his gesture and nodded. Unobtrusively, the seneschal arose and made his way to Tawarmaenas's seat. He spoke softly in the young Elf's ear. Tawarmaenas giggled a little, but he nodded and allowed Gilglîr to help him to his feet. The two Elves left the room quietly, but Legolas was amused to see that Tawarmaenas walked a little unsteadily. 'My cousin has led a sheltered life in comparison to my own', he thought to himself, smiling. 'When Elrohir and Elladan next visit, we shall have to remedy the omissions in my cousin's education. Perhaps the Lady will agree to permit Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin to journey hence as well. Then we shall be able to thoroughly train Tawarmaenas in how to carouse properly'.

After several more toasts, the banquet at last concluded. Legolas managed to suppress his sigh of relief and politely took his leave of his father's visitors. Then he hurried to his room and pulled off the hated diadem. He had almost made it into the dining hall without one, but Edwen Nana, silver circlet in hand, had ambushed him in the corridor. Legolas smiled at the memory. Edwen Nana somehow always seemed to be able to produce one of the wretched objects. No matter how many circlets Legolas 'lost' or misplaced, the elleth would pull one from beneath the folds of her robe. Sometimes Legolas wondered whether his old nursemaid had an enchanted chest in her chamber, one filled with diadems whose number would never diminish no matter how many circlets were removed from the box.

After pulling off his diadem and changing into less formal garb, Legolas decided to check on his cousin, whose room was nearby. When he arrived, he found a housemaid changing the linen on his cousin's bed. "The young master had a sour stomach," the servant said diplomatically.

"Where is he?" asked Legolas, a little worried.

"He thought a turn in the fresh air would do him good."

Legolas returned to his room and belted on a knife, one of a pair presented him by Elladan and Elrohir. He began to leave the chamber but then went back and strapped on his quiver and picked up his bow. His thoughts at the banquet came back to him. No trace of enemies had been found this close to the Great Hall in recent days, but one never knew when a foe might evade the sentries and draw near.

The door warden was surprised when he saw Legolas approach. "My Lord, it is very late to be venturing forth."

"My cousin is without. Did you know that?"

"No, my Lord. I only came on duty just now, and my predecessor did not mention it."

Legolas made a note to mention the omission to Gilglîr. The Prince knew that a young Elf had recently drawn duty as door warden. Doubtless it was necessary that the duties of the position be more fully explained to the youngster.

"If I have not returned by the ringing of the midnight bell," Legolas said to the guard, "send word to my father."

"Yes, my Lord," said the door warden, who was now standing very straight even for an Elf.

Legolas stepped forth into a world bright with moonlight and began to follow Tawarmaenas's trail. It was easy to trace, for his cousin was not moving with the usual grace of an Elf. The trail meandered about, moving ever further from the Hall, but not in a straight line.

Suddenly Legolas froze and his hand went to his knife. He heard hissing and rustling. "Ungol," Legolas said softly. _Spider_.

The Elf stood listening for several minutes. Then he tested his bow string before moving in the direction of the sound. From the noise he had concluded that there were in fact several spiders in the forest.

He came to a patch of torn spider web. In it were a few strands of golden hair. He winced, thinking of the time he had left some of his hair behind in a spider web. Yet he also grew hopeful. He had torn free of the sticky silk, and judging from the state of this web, so too had Tawarmaenas.

Legolas quickened his steps, eager to come to the aid of his cousin, for he was now certain that Tawarmaenas was being pursued by the spiders. 'I'll warrant he is sober now', he thought wryly.

The noise of the spiders was very loud now, and Legolas was careful to keep to the shadows. He crept up to a small clearing in the woods, and peering out from cover, he saw a number of spiders clustered around the base of a tree. Looking up, Legolas saw his cousin perched as far out on a limb as he dared. A spider had crawled up after him but was afraid to venture on the branch for fear that it would break under its weight. Instead, it was rattling the limb with its front legs, hoping that Tawarmaenas would be dislodged and fall into the maws of the spiders waiting beneath.

Silently, Legolas fitted an arrow to his bow. His first target was of course the spider most immediately menacing his cousin. The Elf aimed for the vulnerable pedicel that joined the spider's cephalothorax to its abdomen. His shot severed the nerve connecting the spider's head to its body. Mortally wounded, the creature plummeted into the midst of its fellows below.

In the chaos that ensued, Legolas rapidly brought down five more spiders before they divined the direction from which the Elf was shooting. Then they swarmed toward him, hissing and clacking their pedipalps, but Legolas swiftly ascended a tree and shot two spiders that were foolish enough to try to climb up after him. With that, the survivors fled, among them three who were limping from wounds to their segmented legs. Legolas briefly considered following after to finish them off, but then discarded the idea. They might lead him back to a nest swarming with additional spiders. It would be better to get Tawarmeanas safely back to the Great Hall, leaving the tracking to his father's warriors on the morrow.

Tawarmaenas and Legolas descended from their respective trees, and the cousins embraced. As Legolas had expected, the younger Elf was very, very sober. The two set out at a jog for the Hall, Legolas in the rear, his bow at the ready in case the spiders returned.

As they neared the Hall, they heard shouts and saw the flickering lights of torches. The midnight bell had rung, and the door warden had sent word to Thranduil that his nephew and son were without the Hall. Now, led by Thranduil and Gilglîr, a rescue party had come forth. As soon as he spied the two missing Elves, the King rushed forward and, forgetting that he was a monarch, threw his arms around both his son and his nephew, squeezing his young kinsmen until each gasped and 'cried uncle'.

"Foolish, foolish lads," Thranduil scolded. "Whatever possessed you to leave the Hall without an escort?"

"It's my fault," Legolas and Tawarmaenas said as one. The two young Elves looked at each other and grinned. "One for all, and all for one," Tawarmaenas said softly.

"Aye, for fellowship," Legolas agreed in a whisper.

"What's that you say?" demanded the King.

By now they had reached the Hall, and the cousins were relieved of the necessity of replying by Edwen Nana, who launched herself at them and began to chide them far more vigorously than Thranduil had. She pulled them away from the King, and holding each by an elbow, she marched them past an amused Gilglîr and down the corridor to her room. There she insisted that they drink mulled cider and eat biscuits while she continued to admonish them. Both young Elves worked very hard at looking suitably chastened, but Edwen Nana was not fooled.

"Scamps, the both of you,' she scolded. "When will you ever grow up?"

"Now, Nana," Legolas sallied, "you don't _really_ want us to grow up, do you? Then you shouldn't be able to mother us."

"Nonsense!" Edwen Nana retorted. "There is no age limit on mothering. You will always be my Laiqua, and you," should said, turning to Tawarmaenas, "will always be my little Tuí."

Tawarmaenas blushed, and Legolas grinned. "I did not know she nicknamed you 'Sprout'," he teased.

Tawarmaenas at once proved hat Edwen Nana had truly named them scamps by seizing a pillow and chucking it at his cousin.

The elleth snatched the pillow away from Legolas. "Oh be off, the both of you," she grumbled, "before my chamber is reduced to a shambles."

The next morning, when the Men from Lake-town heard of the night's events, they looked very pale. The spiders had been lurking near the route they must take to return to their homes.

"Their bravado seems considerably lessened," Tawarmaenas whispered to Legolas.

Tawarmaenas was right: the Men were no longer jaunty. They hemmed and hawed but in the end asked outright for an escort of Thranduil's warriors, a boon that the King graciously granted.

After the Men had departed, things were quiet for several weeks. One morning, however, when Legolas entered the Dining Hall, he was surprised to see Gandalf seated at the table eating porridge.

"Mithrandir! When did you arrive?"

"Was I here last night?"

"No."

"Am I here now?"

"Yes."

"Then I reckon I must have arrived sometime between the point at which you retired to bed and the point at which you arose from your rest. Does that sound right to you?"

Legolas huffed in mock exasperation and took a chair beside the wizard.

"I am very glad to see you, Mithrandir."

"You won't be when I have told you my news. Aragorn may be visiting you shortly."

"Then I am still very glad to see you, for that is excellent news!"

"Perhaps," Gandalf said noncommittally. "I have asked Aragorn to track a creature I have been pursuing for several years. If he captures it, he may bring it here. I have come to request the use of Thranduil's dungeon if that is the case."

"It is rather dusty," Legolas laughed. "It hasn't been used in half a century."

"Yes, not since your father imprisoned a group of Dwarves who were passing through Mirkwood on _my_ recommendation."

"Mithrandir, I do not understand why you descend to the level of Dwarves."

"You should enlarge your mind," Gandalf said dryly. "Unlike stature, the extent of a person's understanding is to a certain extent under his control."

Tawarmaenas arrived and took a chair next to his cousin.

"I am very glad to see you, Mithrandir," he said cheerfully. The wizard sighed.

"Why," he lamented, "do I feel as if I am trapped in an endless knot."

"Oh, an endless knot," exclaimed Tawarmaenas brightly. "That's a pentangle. My uncle's poet knows a most excellent poem that features a pentangle. It is a mannish poem of the sort that alliterates. In it a green knight is beheaded at the festival of Edenidhrin, but he does not die. The hero who beheads him bears a pentangle upon his shield. He enters into a pact with the green knight to stand a return blow after a year and a day, but in the end his life is spared so that he feels as if he were reborn with the next New Year."

"I know that poem," Legolas chimed in. "It was composed by Reuel the Minstrel."

"Actually," Gandalf corrected, "it is an ancient poem, and no one knows who composed it. Reuel the Minstrel, a very learned Man, put its verses into a more modern form and so preserved the tale for a new generation. He would never have claimed to be the author, however, for he was always the first to acknowledge his indebtedness to the poets who went before him. The tale goes ever on, and each poet follows a path broken for him by his predecessors. A story-teller who does not recognize this fact will soon go astray."

Now Thranduil made his entry. He took the empty chair beside Gandalf.

"I am very glad to see you, Mithrandir," he declared. Gandalf groaned aloud.

"A never-ending story," he lamented. "I am trapped within a never-ending story."

"I am glad," Legolas declared. "I shouldn't want the story to end!"

"I think I can assure you," said Gandalf, pushing back his chair and standing up, "that this tale will not end anytime soon."

And with that the wizard bid his friends farewell for the time being. Jamming his pointed hat upon his head and picking up his staff, he strode out of the room—but not, I assure you, out of the story.


	5. Chapter 5: Needs and Wants

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 4: **_**JastaElf, Ne'ith5, vectis, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 5: Needs and Wants**

Anomen couldn't move without drawing attention to himself, so he settled for wiggling his toes within his boots. Fortunately, the Cobbler had only just finished fashioning him a new pair, and that gentleman had wisely left plenty of room in the toes.

"The lad is growing apace," he had observed to Elrond when he delivered the shoes. "As are Elladan and Elrohir," he had added. "I shall be hard put to keep them in shoes if I am not provided more leather."

The next day Elrond had dispatched Lindir and several other Elves on a deer-hunting expedition. "Take care to preserve the hides intact," he had instructed them.

Elladan and Elrohir were included in the hunting party, but Elrond told Anomen that he must remain in Imladris.

"But I am a better shot than either Elladan or Elrohir," Anomen had protested.

"Which is why they must go," Elrond replied calmly. "They need the practice; you do not."

"I shall not remain a better shot unless I continue to practice," Anomen argued.

Elrond smiled. "I hardly think that your skills will suffer if you do not go out with this hunting party. You will get off more shots here on the training field than in the forest. Hunters spend many hours stalking, a few minutes shooting."

Anomen did not give up. "Stalking is a skill that must be practiced, too. You would deprive me of the opportunity to exercise my eyes and my wits?"

"You negotiate well, Anomen," Elrond observed, his face impassive, his voice neutral.

Anomen looked at Elrond warily. Was his foster-father about to yield, or was he setting a trap?

"Then my arguments are good?" the young Elf said cautiously.

"No, I did not say they were good. Yet they have the appearance of reason, and they are delivered both politely and with conviction. Anomen, you have the makings of a diplomat—which is why you must forgo this hunting expedition."

"I will not be less of a diplomat if I accompany the hunting party."

"Ah, but you will, for you would forfeit an opportunity to participate in negotiations with a trade delegation, an experience that will hone your skill at thrusting and parrying with words. One's words must be wielded with no less skill than one's blades."

Anomen saw that his foster-father would not yield. "Very well, Ada," he said dispassionately, for he thought it bootless to sulk.

"You see, you are a diplomat," Elrond said approvingly. "Now, the Dwarves will arrive—"

"Dwarves!" shouted Anomen.

'Perhaps not as diplomatic as I hoped', Elrond murmured. Aloud he said, "Yes, Dwarves. They have been working a small vein of ore, whose location they have carefully concealed, and would trade some ore for cloth. They have heard that we have lately received some woolen stuffs from Lothlórien."

"Why do they not go directly to Lórien for their cloth, as that is the source?" grumbled Anomen.

"They are afraid of the Lady," Elrond answered. "They think she is a witch."

"Ignorant Dwarves," muttered Anomen. "Don't they know the difference between a prophetess and a sorceress?"

"I own that on occasion I myself can scarcely tell the difference," Elrond said mildly. "Howsomeever, they wish to deal with the Elves of Rivendell rather than those of Lórien, and it certainly to our advantage that they desire to do so. I expect that we shall profit by the exchange."

"Immensely, I hope."

"Fairly, _I_ hope—although the two are not mutually exclusive. Now, as I had commenced telling you, the Dwarves will arrive by late afternoon. You are to tell the Head Housekeeper that we shall need accommodations for a dozen Dwarves, and then inform the Head Cook that he should expect the same number of guests for supper. Please advise him that Dwarves have an appetite disproportionate to their size, so he ought to cook as if he expected two-score humans."

Vexed at the thought that he was helping prepare for the arrival of Dwarves, Anomen set off on his errands. On his way, he passed by the chamber he shared with Elladan and Elrohir, and his temper was not improved when he saw them step forth from the room with quivers on their backs and bows in their hands. They waved a cheery farewell to their foster brother and hastened off in the direction of the stable.

It was with a very unhappy face that Anomen presented himself to the Head Housekeeper. "You look as if you've seen an Orc," she opined.

"We will soon be besieged by a dozen Dwarves," Anomen responded shortly, "and my father begs that you prepare suitable chambers. I suppose, as they are small, you can sleep them two to a bed and so save yourself some trouble."

"I am very capable of preparing a dozen beds, young master," huffed the Head Housekeeper. "Or do you doubt my abilities?"

"Oh, certainly not," Anomen exclaimed hastily. "I merely didn't think you would like to trouble yourself excessively on behalf of Dwarves."

"When your father sees fit to extend his hospitality to wayfarers, I try to do right by them," retorted the Housekeeper. "I should be ashamed if your father's courtesy proved deficient through some failing on my part."

While the Housekeeper spoke, she hefted a broom as if it were a mace. Anomen began to back toward the door. "I am sure," he said placatingly, "that you can be trusted to make all such preparations as are both needful and proper."

As Elrond had said, Anomen possessed the makings of a diplomat. Mollified by his words, the Housekeeper lowered her broom, and Anomen politely bowed himself out the door.

Anomen approached his next errand more carefully. He stopped at the threshold to the kitchen. "I have a message from my father," he called. "May I enter?"

The Head Cook gestured with his ladle that Anomen might enter his domain.

"Well, young master," he said gruffly, "you are welcome for your father's sake, but keep your hands where I can see them. I won't have any pies pilfered this day. Now, state your errand!"

"A party of twelve Dwarves approaches Imladris. They will be present at the evening meal, and my father begs that you prepare accordingly."

"Dwarves, eh. They are very partial to red meat on the bone. They are also very fond of salted pork. You tell your father that I shall know what to do."

Anomen thanked him and turned toward the door.

"Hold a minute," called the Cook. He gestured toward a steaming pot. "I don't relish lugging that pot about. You drink a mug of that mulled cider and it will weigh the less."

Anomen gladly accepted the cup of cider. He was no longer an elfling, but he still cherished these moments in the kitchen, surrounded by the warmth of the woodstove and the odor of bread newly turned out of the pan.

Anomen slowly sipped his cider as the Cook directed his underlings in preparing for their guests. The pies, meanwhile, sat cooling on a trestle table. By and by the Cook sliced them. When he had finished, he discovered that he had an odd number of wedges. Obviously, this state of affairs would never do, and Anomen was given the task of eating the odd slice. The young Elf hid a grin as he savored his pie. He knew what the Cook was about, and the Cook knew that he knew, but neither would violate their unspoken agreement to be fond of one another without letting on. Hence, as soon as Anomen finished cider and pie, the Cook scolded the young Elf from the kitchen, and Anomen played his part by retreating hastily. As soon as he was out of sight of the kitchen, though, he stopped and put his hand in his pouch. Sure enough, the Cook had somehow contrived to slip a biscuit into the pouch. Nibbling the biscuit, feeling complacent even in the face of approaching Dwarves, Anomen returned to Elrond's chamber to report that he had completed his errands.

Elrond canted his eyebrows when Anomen returned in such a cheerful state, but he asked no questions. Anomen continued cheerful throughout the day, and he behaved with great correctness at supper that night, bowing low to their guests and greeting each Dwarf with fair words. By the next morning, however, the effect of cider, pie, and biscuit had worn off. Unfortunately, this was just the time at which a surfeit of good humor would have stood Anomen in good stead. Negotiations had begun in earnest, but instead of relishing the battle of wits between Elrond and the Dwarves, Anomen felt like an elfling forced to sit through an interminable lesson on the quality and value of, respectively, gold and wool. Worst of all, the young Elf could not move for fear of drawing attention to his restlessness. Thus we have reached the stage of the story at which we began: Anomen, unable to fidget, was reduced to wiggling his toes within his boots, his toes marking the cadence of the negotiation's contrapuntal orchestration.

_This gold is beautiful._

_Wiggle._

_This cloth is warm._

_Wiggle._

_Dwarves labored hard to wrest this ore from an unwilling mountain._

_Wiggle._

_Elves carried this cloth to Imladris by a long and difficult path._

_Wiggle._

_See how this gold is of the highest quality._

_Wiggle._

_See how tightly this cloth is woven._

_Wiggle._

As he wiggled his toes, Anomen began to daydream. He imagined that he was in the woods. He heard a slight rustle. Stealing toward the sound, he peered out from behind a tree. There, grazing in a meadow was a—

"Anomen?"

"Deer!"

"Dear? You think the price the Dwarves ask is too dear?"

"Deer," repeated Anomen confusedly. "Deer!"

The young Elf looked about and saw that every eye was fixed upon him. A Dwarf, the chief of the band judging from his garb, cleared his throat.

"Your son seems quite decided in his opinions," he harrumphed. "I should like to know why he thinks our gold is too dear at the price we ask."

Anomen looked at Elrond, who nodded encouragement. The young Elf took a deep breath and commenced.

"Your gold is beautiful and of the highest quality, and its mining entailed great labor. We desire your gold. Yet we do not _need_ your gold. Should you bear it away again, we should go on as formerly. Now, our cloth is well woven and warm and carried to Imladris at great expense. You desire our cloth. Yet you also _need_ our cloth—for as beautiful as your gold may be, I warrant you should not like to saunter about dressed only in that medallion!"

The Dwarf chieftain opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, one of the Dwarves snorted. He was the youngest of the Dwarves, and Anomen saw that he was struggling to maintain his composure. "I am sorry," the Dwarf spluttered, "but I was just imagining—I saw a picture in my mind of—oh, dear!"

"That's what I said." Anomen deadpanned.

At that, the entire company, the chieftain included, broke into laughter. Even Elrond chuckled softly. It took an announcement from the Cook of 'red meat on the bone' to settle the company, and even then pockets of hilarity erupted whenever a Dwarf hoisted his cup and chortled the words 'oh, dear'.

After the noon meal, the table was cleared and negotiations recommenced. Everyone was in excellent humor, and Anomen suspected that matters would be concluded rapidly. He was quite attentive now, and his toes no longer tap-danced within his boots. Avidly, he watched Elrond and the Dwarf chieftain banter, their words light in manner but serious in intent. At last the two arose and reached across the table to clasp hands, but before the agreement could be sealed in that fashion, the door was thrown open and a voice called 'Ada!'

Everyone had turned toward the door at the urgent cry, and Anomen, forgetting himself at the sight of Elladan's fearful face, sprang up and ran toward his foster-brother. Elrond was only a few steps behind. Elladan seized hold of both of them.

"Ada," he cried, "we want shovels! As many shovels as may be found!"

"Shovels? Why shovels?"

"Elrohir shot a deer," Elladan babbled, "but he only wounded it and the deer fled and Elrohir followed and the deer ran into a cave and Elrohir followed though Lindir shouted at him to hold and the entrance collapsed and we haven't got shovels and Lindir and the others are digging with hands and sticks and Ada we want shovels—"

"You don't want shovels only," the Dwarf chieftain interrupted. "You want miners, too. You want Dwarves!"

"Anomen, run to the stable," ordered Elrond. "See that horses are saddled. Elladan, hasten to the Gardener. Tell him to bring every shovel he can find to the stable."

"You need crowbars, too," the chieftain interrupted. "And axes. Pickaxes if you have them. Ropes and chains, also. And buckets."

"Ask for all of these," Elrond instructed Elladan. "Go not only to the Gardener but to the Smith." Elladan nodded, wiped a sleeve across his tear-stained face, and ran from the room. Anomen had already raced off to the stable and was now helping the ostlers saddle two-score horses. Soon he was joined by Elven warriors summoned by Elrond, and then the Dwarves marched up. Each Dwarf clambered up behind an Elf. The youngest Dwarf was to ride with Anomen himself, and the young Elf was so frightened on Elrohir's account that he did not even care.

Led by Elladan, the company rode forth, galloping as swiftly as the ground permitted. When they reached the scene of the cave-in, Anomen was appalled to see that the hunters had made hardly any progress. It had rained frequently during the previous fortnight, and the water-logged soil had continued to cascade down the hillside. No sooner had the diggers hollowed out a space than it was filled again with rock and dirt.

"Needs to be shored up," pronounced the Dwarf chieftain. "Stop digging; start cutting."

The axes were distributed, and Elf and Dwarf alike set to work felling trees. The chieftain strode from Elf to Dwarf giving orders as to the length of each timber.

With the timbers in place, work preceded rapidly, for the soil was soft and easy to shovel. A few boulders blocked the way, but with ropes and chains and crowbars they were muscled out of the way. Before too long, a shovel wielded by a Dwarf broke through into a cavity. Elrond flung himself upon the ground and shouted into the aperture. "Elrohir," he shouted. "My son!"

After a minute a weak voice cried in answer. "Ada, I am so very dizzy. It is hard to breathe."

"Not a moment too soon," grunted the Dwarf chieftain. "Lad was almost out of air. Widen that hole there!"

The Dwarves pushed aside the Elves, and it must be allowed that the Naugrim were the better diggers.

As soon as the hole was shoulder-width, the youngest Dwarf squirmed through the opening, a rope around his waist. That precaution proved unnecessary, as by now the air within the cave was quite good. Within a few minutes Elrohir's head appeared in the hole, his arms extended. Elrond pushed forward past the Dwarves. With Elrond grasping one arm and the chieftain the other, Elrohir was extracted from the cave. After him came the youngest Dwarf, but without the rope. He had tied it around the deer, and while Elrond checked Elrohir for injuries, the ever-practical Dwarves enlarged the hole and dragged out the carcass. "Venison is venison," harrumphed the Dwarf chieftain, and it was true that the meat at the feast that night was very tasty. Elrohir did not eat any, however. (But he did wear the boots that were later fashioned from the hide.)

That next morning Elves and the Dwarves came together, ostensibly to conclude the trade agreement, but Elrond had other plans.

"My stock of words is too poor to ever thank you sufficiently for the great gift you have given me," the elf-lord said, his hand upon Elrohir's shoulder. With his other hand he gestured toward bolt after bolt of excellent woolen cloth. "So I shall let this cloth speak for me instead. Please take it as a token of my gratitude."

"The gold?" said the Dwarf chieftain.

"We need no gold, and what I want, I have." Elrond softly squeezed his son's shoulder.

"Well, that's all very well for _you_," grumbled the chieftain, "but now we must lug away both that cloth and all this gold. Gold is heavy, don't you know. You'd better keep it. _We_ don't want it. No, nor need it, neither!"

And so, after some further urging, the Elves agreed to relieve the Dwarves of their burden of gold. Thus, with both sides claiming that they had got the better of the exchange, the two peoples parted amicably.

Now, since this encounter with Dwarves ended so very well, a reader might be forgiven for wondering why Anomen continued to dislike Dwarves so fiercely, but the story behind that, well, let us just say, 'oh, dear!'


	6. Chapter 6: The Cookie Crumbles

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Dragonsofliberty, sazza-da-vampire, Lady Ambreanna, Misa 8924, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 6: The Cookie Crumbles**

The growl cut through Legolas's dream, and he was awake upon the instant, reaching for his knife.

"Easy, lad," came a voice through the dark. "It's only my stomach."

In the dark, Legolas grinned. "Hungry again so soon after the banquet, Gimli?" he chuckled.

"How not?" Gimli replied, his voice as lighthearted as his friend's. "You must concede that an elven banquet is not the same as a dwarven one—or even a mannish one. Take Éomer's banquets," he continued cheerfully. "Those are proper feasts. Red meat on the bone and all that. But, begging your pardon, your elven banquet is an altogether different matter. I've no complaint about the _quantity_ of food at an elven banquets, for there are heaped platters aplenty. But consider what is upon those platters: fruits and nuts!"

"Do you disdain fruit and nuts, Gimli?"

"You know I don't, Legolas. But they don't stick to one's ribs, as my Da would say." As if to prove Gimli's words, his stomach emitted another loud grumble. Legolas laughed out loud. "You are going to bring out the guards," he teased. "They will think Imladris has been invaded by wolves."

"I could eat a wolf about now," Gimli replied. "Indeed, I could eat a horse!"

"Do not say that hereabouts, Gimli! You know we Elves are fond of our horses."

"It's only a manner of speaking, lad. I have heard it said among the Rohirrim—and you know they are as fond of horses as any Elf could be."

"True, which is why the saying has such meaning for them, I suppose. A Man of Rohan would have to be very hungry indeed to speak of eating a horse."

Gimli's stomach rumbled again. The Dwarf groaned. "I am so famished that I shall never get any sleep."

"And therefore neither shall I," said Legolas, arising from his bed and uncovering the lantern. "We must go to the kitchen and find you somewhat to eat." He reached for his tunic.

"Skinny Elf," said Gimli, as he usually did when Legolas was garbed only in his natal suit.

"Hairy Dwarf," Legolas replied, also as usual.

"Of course I'm a hairy Dwarf," Gimli retorted. "Meat puts hair on your chest!"

"And everywhere else," Legolas murmured.

"I heard that," protested Gimli. "I have—"

"The ears of a fox," Legolas finished.

Legolas and Gimli never wearied of this exchange, although it caused much eye rolling on the part of everyone else. One evening in the Hall of Fire Glorfindel had commented upon this aspect of Legolas and Gimli's friendship. "Legolas," the balrog-slayer had asked, "how can you bear to make the same joke over and over again?"

Legolas smiled. "Glorfindel, each day you welcome the sunrise although you have witnessed it thousands of times before. Why, then, should I weary of this banter that I share with my friend? Our words were forged in a melding pot of shared sorrows and joys and are an emblem of our bond."

"The forging of this sign of amity," Elrond opined, "is preferable to the forging of such objects as have lately troubled us."

"True," agreed Gandalf. "I would rather a quip than a ring be an emblem of their friendship. I have had quite enough of rings, thank you."

Glorfindel conceded the point, and Legolas and Gimli continued their banter, this light-hearted exchange so different from the bickering that they had engaged in when they had set out from Rivendell as part of the Fellowship of the Nine.

Now, this conversation several weeks in the past, Elf and Dwarf quietly slipped out of their room and made for the kitchen. Legolas moved as carefully as if he were attempting to creep up on a band of Orcs.

"Is this secrecy necessary?" Gimli whispered. "You are Prince Legolas, son of the King of Eryn Lasgalen, foster-son of Elrond of Rivendell. Cannot you stroll into the kitchen and help yourself to some food?"

"Trust me, Gimli. This is how it must be done."

By now they had reached the kitchen. Legolas tried the door. It was locked.

"This is a new development," he said. "Formerly the door was left unlocked."

He moved to a window. It was shuttered and barred from the inside. Legolas grinned.

"It seems now I am older, the Cook has decided to make the task more challenging."

"I can be of assistance in this matter," Gimli said, likewise grinning. The two returned to the door, where Gimli reached into his pouch and drew out a wire circle from which several slender pieces of metal dangled. He crouched before the door and examined the lock. "This one should do," he muttered after a bit, slipping a piece of metal from the circle. He poked the metal into the lock and jiggled it. The two friends heard a click, and Gimli lifted the latch and pushed open the door.

"I did not know you had that skill, Gimli," Legolas said approvingly.

"We Dwarfs are excellent locksmiths, and any locksmith is perforce a lock pick," bragged Gimli.

"You had better give Elrohir lessons. Lock picking is something he has had to resort to on occasion, but I have never seen him open a door as quickly as you have just now."

Gimli snorted. "Elrohir lock picking, eh? I can only imagine why _he_ would want to gain entry to a chamber."

"And you would probably be right," Legolas said gaily. He stepped into the kitchen and began to count cupboards. "Min, tâd, nêl, canad, eneg, odog—ah, this should be it."

Standing before the cupboard, he passed his hand over its side. "Where is that lever?" he murmured. He found what he was seeking, and the cupboard door sprang open. Within was a box with an ornate pattern of inlaid wood upon its top. The pieces proved to be mobile, and Legolas set about rearranging them. "If you slide them into the correct positions, this box will open," he explained to Gimli.

After a few tries, the two friends heard another click, and Legolas raised the lid of the box. Therein lay biscuits in the shape of mallorn leaves. Legolas reached his hand into the box.

Suddenly a light shone upon them. "Raiders! Reivers! Thieves! Burglars!" someone cried. In the door of the pantry loomed a figure in an apron. In his hand he held a lantern, and as Gimli watched, astonished, this apparition banged down the lantern and picked up a pot lid and a ladle. The apron his armor, the ladle brandished like a sword, the lid a shield, this figure advanced upon them. Gimli looked about wildly for weapons and armor. Seizing upon a rolling pin, clapping a colander upon his head, he adopted a defensive stance. Legolas, however, stood calmly, a biscuit in his hand. He made as if to raise it to his mouth.

"Hold!" shouted the apparition. "If you do that biscuit an injury, I shall wreak vengeance on its behalf."

"I have captured this biscuit, and I shall do with it as I like," Legolas replied jauntily.

"You would mistreat a prisoner?"

Legolas considered. "I would let you ransom it. If you value this biscuit, let the ransom be generous! Cold meat, a dozen rolls, a wedge of cheese, and a pie."

"And a flagon of ale," interjected Gimli.

"Your terms are hard," grumbled the Head Cook—for it was of course that personage, come to do battle in defense of his realm. Just then, Gimli's stomach rumbled. "Oh ho," smirked the Cook, emboldened anew. "You do not altogether have the advantage, young sir! Your companion is in a bad state. You had better hand over that biscuit and sue for mercy."

"Oh, do let him have the biscuit, Legolas," Gimli begged. "I was anyway hoping for something more substantial than a cookie."

"Cookie!" roared the Cook. "You call my biscuit a cookie!"

"Cookie is a term of endearment," Gimli said hastily. "We Dwarfs love cookies."

Legolas snickered.

"Well, we _do_," Gimli said in an aggrieved tone.

"Not as much as _Elrohir_ does," Legolas muttered.

"Ahem," interrupted the Cook, "we were negotiating over that biscuit."

"Right," Legolas said hastily. "Cold meat, a dozen rolls, a wedge of cheese, and a pie."

"And a flagon of ale," Gimli reminded him.

"Cold meat, half a dozen rolls, a slab of butter, and half a pie," the Cook countered.

"And a—"

"Flagon of ale," the Cook finished for Gimli. "Do you accept these terms?"

Legolas nodded.

"Good. Put down the biscuit. Slowly! Slowly! Good. Now step away from the biscuit. Keep your hands where I can see them!"

Legolas edged away from the forfeit biscuit, and the Cook gestured that he and Gimli should seat themselves upon stools at a nearby a trestle table. "You can take off your helmet," Legolas whispered to Gimli. The Dwarf clapped his hand upon his head and discovered that he was still wearing the colander. His face coloring a little, he whipped off the strainer and hastily put it aside.

Meanwhile the Cook was bustling—he always bustled—about the kitchen, and soon he approached the table with a platter bearing the agreed-upon items—plus raisins and apples, a saucer of clotted cream, two dishes of custard, and a handful of walnuts.

"I was just—"

"Clearing out the pantry," finished Legolas.

"Well, I _was_," the Cook said truculently.

Indeed he was. Whether or not he needed to do so was, of course, another matter. He bustled about the kitchen a little more and then brought another platter to the table. Upon this one, among other items, lay six rolls, a wedge of cheese, the other half of the pie, and several mallorn-shaped biscuits. The Cook pulled up a stool.

"Thought I might as well enjoy the fruits of my own labor," he harrumphed.

There was considerable swapping of the contents of the two platters, and much good conversation was exchanged, until at length all members of the company declared themselves satisfied. "You have proved to be a most magnanimous victor," Legolas teased their host, "for the rations that Gimli and I have devoured exceed those usually allotted the vanquished."

"Ah, well," the Cook said genially, "that's the way the cookie crumbles, if you will pardon the expression."

"_I_ will," declared Gimli, "the crumbs being so delicious." He picked up several of said crumbs and popped them into his mouth.

The Cook beamed, for when folk pick at morsels, it is 'proof of the pudding', so to speak. A Cook can ask for no better testimony of tastiness, unless it be the licking of fingers.

He arose and went to the biscuit box. "Here," he said, returning to the table. "The set having been broken, I shall cook another dozen, so you may as well take these. Now be off with you. It is almost dawn, so I must begin preparations for breakfast. Be sure you bring a good appetite to the Dining Hall!"

Legolas slipped the biscuits into his pouch, and he and Gimli promised that they would indeed do justice to the morning meal. They would keep that promise, too, for Legolas had eaten less than Gimi, and as for the Dwarf, like a Hobbit, he was always prepared to eat.

As they left the kitchen, they spied two figures lingering nearby in the shadows. "The Cook is on the warpath," Legolas called cheerfully as Elladan and Elrohir emerged from their hiding place. Elladan shrugged. "No challenge otherwise," he proclaimed.

Elrohir looked searchingly at Legolas's pouch.

"What has he got in his pouch, we wonder," he mused aloud.

"Tokens of our kitchen conquests," Legolas said loftily. "And you needn't covet them. You must get your _own_ booty."

Elrohir grinned wickedly. "Oh, I have," he assured his foster brother.

"Does he mean cookies," Gimli asked suspiciously.

"Yes," said Legolas, keeping a straight face. "Farewell, brothers," he said to Elladan and Elrohir. "Gimli and I go to rest after the rigors of battle."

Legolas and his friend turned toward their chamber. Behind them, Elladan and Elrohir crept toward the kitchen. A few minutes later a great roar was heard amidst the sounds of pots crashing to the floor.

The battle for biscuits was over. The battle for meat pasties had begun.


	7. Chapter 7: The Book of Khazad dûm

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Tinnuial, OuzoAthena1, Alanic,**____**JastaElf, Dragonsofliberty, sazza-da-vampire, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**This story starts when Legolas is an elfling, but it is included in **_**Elf Interludes**_** because the elfling portions set up incidents that took place when Legolas was older.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 7: The Book of Khazad-dûm**

Anomen held his book up to his face in a futile effort to hide a yawn. "Anomen," Erestor said firmly. "I am sorry this lesson is not to your taste, but an Elf of Elrond's household will be expected to meet and converse with folk of many lands. In order to do so, it is necessary to learn the history and customs of the various nations."

Anomen was normally eager to learn about distant places and cultures. Today, however, he was not. "This is a book about Dwarfs," he complained. "The subject is beneath me."

Elrohir snickered at the (probably unintentional) pun, and Erestor decided that a lesson in deportment was in order. "Elrohir," he said sternly, "you have just now made a sound like a horse's nicker. It just so happens that I have a book on the natural history of horses that Elrond has asked me to copy as a gift to the King of Rohan. The task shall be yours. And mind you do it carefully! You shall save nothing by hurrying through the manuscript, for any pages you blot you shall copy again."

Erestor turned to Anomen. Ironically, the lad now wished that he could shrink enough to avoid his master's attention. However, he could not. "Anomen," the tutor said, frowning, "you think highly of yourself. I shall give you a task in proportion to your opinion." Erestor pointed to a massive tome. "That, Anomen, is an account of the architectural accomplishments of the Naugrim. Notice its stature!"

Anomen did notice. By now he felt very, very small. He drew a stool over to the table upon which rested the tome. Its cover was of wood overlain with tooled leather into which had been inset semiprecious stones. The cover was fastened shut with a clasp fashioned out of mithril. Anomen examined the clasp. To his surprise, it was made in the shape of a mallorn leaf.

Anomen unfastened the clasp and opened the book carefully, for it looked ancient. Inside he found that the first page was entirely covered by an illumination in the design of a door. Upon the door was engraved a picture of an arch supported by two columns. Beside each column was engraved a tree, its branches twining like vines about the pilaster. Immediately beneath the arch was a crown. This was surmounted by a star, and to either side of the crown were three additional stars. Below the crown was the image of an anvil, a hammer balanced upon it. Further down, where the in-curving branches met, was set another star, one larger than the others.

Anomen was puzzled to see that upon the top of the arch were carved Fëanorian characters in the mode of Beleriand. "Ennyn Durin aran Moria," he read, murmuring. "Pedo mellon a mino." _The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter_. Why, he wondered, were elvish words, written in elvish script, on a picture of a door in a book about dwarvish architecture?

"The West-gate of Moria," came a voice at his elbow. Anomen startled a little. It was unusual that someone should creep up on him, but he had become engrossed in studying the picture. "So you have found something of interest in a dwarvish book," Erestor observed dryly.

"This door doesn't look dwarvish," Anomen said defensively.

"The workmanship is dwarvish," Erestor replied, "for it was fashioned in the Second Age by the Dwarf Narvi. In his task he was assisted by Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, who designed the emblems. For this door was made during the days when Elf and Dwarf traded freely and drank the cup of friendship. See how the emblems represent the two folk. The hammer and anvil are symbols of Durin, whilst that lone star there is an emblem of the House of Fëanor. Look at the rest of the inscription."

"Im Narvi hain echant," Anomen read aloud. "Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin." _I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs._

Erestor nodded. "Those were good days," he said pensively. "The doors could have been kept sealed by an enchantment, but that magic was rarely called upon because foes were held in check by the power of the Dwarves and their trading partners. Almost always the doors stood open, attended only by one Doorwarden whose task was to greet visitors more than it was to challenge them. Did you know that the Lady Galadriel passed through this gate, journeying from the West, from Eregion, to found the realm of Lothlórien?"

Anomen shook his head. He knew nothing of the history of Moria.

"The trek over the Misty Mountains would have been arduous—perhaps even dangerous," continued Erestor. "Instead, the Lady journeyed in comfort, enjoying the hospitality of the Naugrim, who fêted her at every turn. Indeed, her journey lasted several days longer than strictly necessary. The distance between the West-gate and the East-gate of Moria is, I believe, on the order of forty miles. At a quick march, the distance can be covered in two or three days—four at the most. The Lady spent two weeks in Moria, however, for she was too gracious to turn down the many invitations that she received from her hosts, whose graciousness matched her own."

Erestor reached over Anomen's shoulder and turned the page. "Ah," he said appreciatively, "the Hall of Records. The Dwarfs called it the Chamber of Marzabul. Many a fine volume stood upon its shelves. I wonder if they have survived the centuries."

Anomen studied the page. Upon it was a picture of a chamber with many niches carved into its walls, and in each niche stood a chest. Some of the chests were open, and within were seen books. It was plain from the illumination that each volume had a binding as ornate as the cover of the tome that lay on the table before him. It would seem that the Dwarves must have valued their books. This was a new notion, and Anomen fought against it.

'Likely the books were only for show', he told himself. That this could not have been the case was demonstrated by the very book that he gazed upon, for the beauty of the pages within matched that of the binding without. The Dwarves would hardly have put such effort into illustrating the pages of their books if the volumes were merely to decorate the walls of their chambers, but the young Elf stubbornly attempted to ignore this inconvenient truth: the picture Anomen gazed upon showed a library as cherished as Elrond's. As Men say, not all blindness results from bodily infirmity, and in this matter Anomen's 'vision' was severely impaired.

Erestor turned another page of the book. Anomen's eyes widened. In the picture ranks of columns marched on and on, vanishing into the distance in a chamber of immense size. No chamber in Thranduil's Great Hall was a large as this one.

Erestor again turned the page. A bridge, impossibly long and narrow, traversed an abyss. "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm," Erestor said approvingly, "also called Durin's Bridge, I believe, for it was he who ordered that it be constructed. When one entered the East-gate of Moria, the Dimrill Gate, one came to a grand chamber, the First Hall, but to continue journeying within Moria it was necessary to cross this bridge. I do not know the secret that allowed the Dwarfs to erect such a lengthy bridge unsupported by piers. But see how narrow it is? Should any foes have broken in at the East-gate, they could have crossed the bridge only in single file, with arrows raining upon them all the while. Thus a small company would have sufficed to prevent an enemy from penetrating further into Dwarrowdelf."

Trained by Glorfindel in military tactics, Anomen had to admit to himself that the Dwarfs had shown great cleverness both in selecting the site for the bridge and in its construction.

As Anomen studied the bridge, Erestor glanced over at Elrohir and saw that the elfling was dawdling over his task. The tutor patted Anomen's shoulder encouragingly and strode off to spur on his other pupil. Behind him, Anomen picked up his quill, dipped the nib in the inkwell, and began to carefully copy his text. As he wrote, he paid attention to the words, and from time to time he stopped to study the illustrations. There was much to marvel over. The elfling came upon more pictures of immense chambers whose high ceiling were supported by endless rows of columns. Diagrams in the book showed that cleverly sunk shafts admitted light and air into the upper reaches of the dwarven realm. Winding staircases provided access to the numerous levels of the city within a mountain. One was called the Endless Stair, Anomen read, and it rose in an unbroken spiral from the roots of the mountain to the pinnacle of a tower that surmounted the summit of the peak. "Durin's Tower" it was named, and one gazed from its windows upon the top of the world.

Each day Anomen copied a little from the book. At last he reached the end of the tome. Turning to the last page, he flinched. Before him was a picture of great beast. Its outstretched wings touched either side of an immense chamber, and its horned head brushed the ceiling high overhead. Its skin looked like the crust over a lava flow, a tortured black layer through whose cracks red tongues of fire still erupted. In one hand the creature clutched a fiery sword, in the other a whip enveloped in flames, and it advanced upon the elfling, one massive talon planted upon the ground, the other uplifted in mid stride.

"A balrog," a caption spelled out in fiery letters against a black background. Reading it, the elfling began to tremble. "Ai! Ai!" he wailed. "A balrog! A balrog is come!"

"Legolas, wake up," a voice whispered. A hand shook Legolas's shoulder. The Elf's eyes came into focus. It was not Erestor's hand but Gimli's that lay upon his shoulder. The Dwarf stared anxiously at his friend.

"You were having a nightmare, Legolas. You cried out in your sleep."

Shivering a little, Legolas pushed himself up on his elbows and gazed about. He lay on a bed of moss in a clearing surrounded by mallorn trees. He looked to one side. Four Hobbits lay huddled together under blankets of silver and green. He looked to the other side of the clearing. Boromir slept with one hand upon his shield, the other clutching at the haft of his sword.

"Where is Aragorn?" Legolas said.

"That Haldir fellow fetched him a little while back. He's confabbing with the Lord and Lady, I reckon."

"And Gandalf?"

Gimli looked with pity upon his friend. "He is gone, lad," he gently reminded the Elf.

"Balrog," Legolas said numbly.

"Yes. Durin's bane."

For a little while the two sat silently side by side. Then Gimli risked a question.

"You had seen a balrog before, Legolas? For you cried out its name straightway when it emerged from the darkness of Khazad-dûm."

"I had seen it often, Gimli. First in a book, then in my nightmares."

Slowly Legolas began to tell the story of how Erestor had set him to copying the manuscript. "The last picture was of a beast compounded of both shadow and flame," the Elf remembered somberly. "I cried out when I saw it, and my master came and took the book away from me. But that night I crept back into the library and found it again. I do not remember doing so, but in the morning Elrond found me lying unconscious beside the book, which was opened to the picture of the balrog. Then Elrond sent the manuscript away for safekeeping to Saruman at Isengard."

Legolas suddenly broke off the tale. "I wonder," he began thoughtfully.

"Do not think it!" Gimli said swiftly. "It was not your fault!"

"There was much lore in that book," Legolas said softly. "Much that Saruman would have found useful. If I had not laid hands on that book, Elrond would never have delivered it into the hands of Saruman."

"If you had never read that book," argued Gimli, "then you would not have been such a good guide through Moria. Oh, don't look try to look as if you don't know what I am on about! Gandalf pretended to defer to me, but I have the eyes of a fox and the ears of an eagle. I saw that he would often draw you aside so that the two of you might consult in whispers over the best way to proceed. I am a Dwarf and have a good sense of direction in the dark places of this world, but you had studied that tome, and I warrant you had memorized many of the pathways through Khazad-dûm."

Legolas conceded that he had, and then he smiled a little. "Do you remember how I twitted you when we neared the West-gate and you said that not even a Dwarf could find the door if its secret had been forgotten?"

Gimli pretended to glower. "Aye," the Dwarf harrumphed. "I do. _You_ said, 'Why am I am not surprised?' Sometimes you really are an insufferable pointy-eared princeling, I hope you know!"

Legolas grinned. "Truly, I was unsurprised, but not because I was persuaded that your ancestors were negligent in the construction of the door. It was my foreknowledge that kept me from being surprised. I knew that the West-gate would only be visible at the full moon, and I knew that a spell would be necessary to open the door. Unfortunately," he added, growing somber again, "in that regard I knew no more than Gandalf."

"Yet what you knew, you shared with him," Gimli said stoutly.

"Thank you, Gimli. It is very kind of you to say that."

"I'm not being kind," Gimli objected. "I'm being truthful! What do you take me for: some sort of airy, compassionate creature? I am no such thing!"

"I will grant that you are not airy," laughed Legolas. "Unless, of course, you have left off a 'haitch', as you sometimes do at the beginning of your words. But if you have not, well, I grant that you are much too substantial to be airy. But we shall have to disagree about whether or not you are compassionate."

"Well, _that's_ all right, then," grunted Gimli. "Disagreeing—that's good. I'm always ready for a good disagreement—and you shall have one if you insist on my being compassionate. On that score, let us disagree. So, then, do we have an accord?"

Legolas chuckled at Gimli's convoluted logic and said that they were indeed in accord. Then, relieved at hearing his friend laugh, the Dwarf who lacked compassion at last rolled himself in his blanket and allowed himself to fall asleep.

Legolas, too, rolled himself in his blanket. As he slept, he dreamed that he was pursuing a slimy beast, a thing of darkness, up and up and up an endless stair. When he reached the top of the spiraling stair, he and his foe came out upon a ledge amidst the high clouds. The creature turned on him and burst into flame, and Legolas knew himself to be again in the presence of the balrog. This time, however, the Elf did not cry out, for he was comforted by a figure clothed in white that arose and stood between him and the beast. The white warrior held up a sword, and from it shot bolts of lightning more powerful than the sulfurous flames that erupted from the balrog's fractured skin. As warrior and balrog fought, it seemed to Legolas that two great forces of nature vied against one another far above the valleys of the earth and that lightning, the sacred flame, was triumphing over the excrescence of the earth. From somewhere distant the Elf heard anew the words of Gandalf on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm as he stood between the Fellowship and Durin's bane: "I am the Servant of the Secret Fire, Wielder of the Flame of Anor."

'Flame Imperishable', Legolas thought to himself in his sleep. 'Gandalf fell, but even in his falling he is more powerful than a creature out of nightmare'.

It would be false to say that Legolas never had another unsettling dream, for in later years his sleep was troubled by visions of gulls soaring above the grey sea, their cries beckoning him to abandon Middle-earth. But after this night in Caras Galadhon, the Elf never had another nightmare about the balrog. He even held the Book of Khazad-dûm in his hands one more time and looked upon the picture of Durin's bane without flinching. Long after Saruman had fled Isengard, Legolas and Gimli journeyed to that place and explored the desolate tower of Orthanc. There, in one of the many moldering chambers, he found the book lying upon a lectern and open to the very picture that had daunted him. He picked it up to blow away the dust and gazed upon it. Open to the light for so many years, the page's colors had faded. The creature was now more shadow than flame.

Gimli came to stand by his friend's elbow. He wrinkled his nose at the picture. "Don't look like much, lad."

"It was much more impressive when I was young."

"Everything's much more impressive when a body is young."

"That is true," Legolas agreed.

"Besides," Gimli added matter-of-factly, "the creature is dead. Tossed over the side of a mountain by Gandalf. Wiry fellow, that Gandalf."

"Gandalf died, too, Gimli. But he came back."

"I don't reckon the balrog will come back, though," Gimli declared. "He didn't have no ring of Narya."

"No," said Legolas, smiling a little. "No, he did not." 'Imperishable Flame', the Elf thought to himself happily, and he remembered another dream, one in which the Star of Eärendil shone down upon a snowy mountain top and the still figure that lay there, a ring upon one outstretched hand. As Legolas watched, the stone in that ring began to glow, and light returned to the figure's eyes, which had been open yet veiled.

Gimli jostled the Elf's elbow just then, and Legolas broke out of his reverie. He didn't mind the interruption, however; he knew how the story ended.

"Let's find some food," demanded the Dwarf, hungry, as always.

Legolas laughed his agreement, and with a decisive thud, he closed the book and followed his friend from that place.


	8. Chapter 8: Breaking Bread

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**This episode is set during a time shortly before Bilbo Baggins sets off with Thorin Oakenshield on the journey that leads to Bilbo's finding of the One Ring.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 8: Breaking Bread**

Legolas wiped his hand across his face, trying to clear his vision of the veil of water that poured down from the sky. The effort was futile, however, and Legolas lowered his head and tugged his hood forward as far as possible. He couldn't see that way, but he couldn't see the other way, either.

"We must seek shelter," he heard Glorfindel shout.

"We passed a cave a mile back," Legolas shouted in return.

Glorfindel gave the command, and the company turned about and began to backtrack. Fair Folk though they were, their progress was slow. Not even their elven agility could save them from sinking ankle-deep into the mire.

"This is no ordinary storm," Legolas muttered.

"What did you say?" came a voice in Legolas's ear.

Legolas raised his voice. "I said," he repeated, "that this is no ordinary storm. After all," he added, "you could not make out my words, Haldir. It must be an extraordinary storm to defeat your exceptional hearing, for we all know that you can hear a butterfly breathe."

Haldir punched Legolas lightly on the shoulder, sending droplets of water flying. Legolas laughed and reciprocated—and lost his footing on the slick path. He tumbled face down into the mud. The column halted and Glorfindel hurried back. "Are you hurt, Legolas," he began to call, and then he caught sight of the young Elf's face and began to laugh. "Throw back your hood, Legolas," he advised, "so that the rain will wash your face clean. If you do not, it is likely that one of your fellows will mistake you for an Orc!"

Legolas joined in the general laughter, and reached up to grasp the hand proffered by Haldir. Haldir's brother Rúmil gave a shout of warning, but it was too late. Haldir found himself sitting in the mud next to a grinning Legolas.

"These Mirkwood and Lothlórien Elves are as clumsy as humans," Elrohir chuckled to his brother Elladan. Then he gasped as something struck him in the back. Stumbling and falling forward, he landed in the mud alongside Legolas and Haldir. Above him his foster brother Estel whooped in triumph.

"No use pushing you in the mud, Estel," laughed Elladan, "as it would not appreciably change your appearance."

Glorfindel shook his head, smiling at the shenanigans of the young folk in his care. Then he raised his voice and shouted the command that they resume their trek. Estel and Elladan helped their muddy comrades clamber to their feet, and they again set out for the cave.

Once they reached the shelter, they were glad to discover that it appeared to be one frequented by Rangers. Dried wood was neatly stacked alongside one wall, and it was the custom of the Dúnedain to cache supplies in places that they frequented. Soon the Elves had a fire going, and Estel and most of the Elves changed into dry garments and laid out their wet clothes near the fire. Legolas and Haldir volunteered for the first watch, however, so they did not bother changing out of their wet garments. "We will only get soaked again." Legolas observed, "and then we will not have any dry clothes to change into later."

Outside the cave, each young Elf chose a vantage point from which he could observe the approach to the shelter's entrance. Haldir crept into the midst of a copse directly in front of the cave while Legolas climbed a tree off to one side.

The first watch was almost at an end and Legolas was on the verge of climbing down from the tree when he saw bushes swaying in the distance as if some animal were passing by them. He whistled an alarm to Haldir, and the Lórien Elf slipped from his hiding place and into the cave to alert Glorfindel. The older Elf emerged in company with the younger one, and both crept into the copse. Legolas, meanwhile, had removed his bow from its cloth covering and strung it. Intently he watched the path leading to the cave. Was it an animal that approached? A Man? An Orc?

It was neither animal nor Man nor Orc. As Legolas watched warily, a Dwarf emerged from the scrub. Then another Dwarf emerged, and then another. One after another Dwarves stepped out from the scrub until seven in all were walking toward the entrance of the cave. Glorfindel stepped out from the copse and barred their way.

"Good morrow, Master Dwarf," he said to the Nauga who seemed to be the leader of the party, judging from his girth and his garb.

"Good morrow to you, too, Master Elf," the Dwarf replied correctly. He glanced past Glorfindel toward the cave's entrance and then looked back at the balrog slayer. "We are about to enter our shelter to get out of this dreadful rain, so you will pardon us if we do not stay to parlay."

"Your shelter? You have a shelter hereabouts?"

"Indeed we do," replied the Dwarf, gesturing toward the cave's entrance.

"As that cave is occupied by a company of Elves, would not it be correct to say that it is their shelter and not yours?" observed Glorfindel.

"If I have built a home and am away from it," replied the Dwarf, "somebody could set up housekeeping in my absence. No one would say that the home had become the squatter's by reason of his trespassing."

Glorfindel chose to ignore the implications of the Dwarf's words: that the Elves were squatters and trespassers. "Your argument might hold water—pardoning the expression on day such as this!—if you had built that cave in the same fashion as one constructs a house. You did not, however, and so I hold that the cave is the property of whoever possesses it—which happens to be us at the moment."

"That would be the case unless a folk have improved and equipped the cave—and we have done so! I'll warrant that at this moment your kin are warming themselves by a fire—and who do you think provided the logs they are so merrily burning? We have stacked nigh half a cord of wood in that cave."

"It is true that we found firewood in the cave," countered Glorfindel, "but many folk cache supplies. You may have discovered wood stockpiled by someone else—or you may be guessing."

"We shall show you other tokens," the Dwarf replied doggedly. "There are things hidden in the cave that I'll warrant you know nothing of." Glorfindel hesitated a moment and then gestured that the Dwarves should follow him into the cave. Legolas and Haldir followed as well, for they were curious to see how matters would turn out. To their disappointment, Elladan and Elrohir were at once sent outside to the stand sentry in their stead. Elrond's sons were also eager to see how Glorfindel would manage this curious 'invasion'; but the balrog slayer, although surprised, was not flummoxed, and he did not forget his duties—nor theirs.

Once inside, the chief Dwarf made straight for the woodpile. A large rock was placed at either end of the woodpile to keep the logs from shifting. The Dwarf rolled aside one of these rocks. Beneath lay something wrapped in leather. The Nauga unwrapped this bundle and held up a wood axe. "There!" he said. "But if that is not enough to prove our claim, I can tell you what is hidden on the other side of the woodpile. If I roll away the other rock, you will see that beneath are hidden several cloaks of Dwarf make. Shall I show you?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, Master Dwarf. I do not doubt you. It seems that your people have a claim upon this cave."

The young Elves groaned, and those who had been sitting arose and picked up their packs.

"Hold a moment," called the Dwarf chieftain. "It is not the custom of my people to turn away folk in need of shelter. In all my life I have never seen a storm as fierce as this one, and I would send no one into it—not even an Elf!"

Some among the Elves, such as Legolas, resented that last phrase, but most of them acknowledged to themselves, even if a trifle reluctantly, that the Dwarf chieftain was extending more hospitality toward the trespassing Eldar than they themselves had been prepared to extend toward the rightful owners of the cave. Somewhat chastened on that account, Glorfindel quickly accepted the Nauga's offer of shelter. The cave was in fact large enough to accommodate both parties, and the two peoples commenced shared housekeeping. Courteously, the Elves drew back from the fire. Their clothes were fairly dry, but even if they had not been, the Dwarves did have a superior claim to that portion of the cave. Soon dwarven cloaks and hoods lay steaming on the spots where elven ones had been stretched out.

For their part, the Dwarves set about toasting more bread than they needed to satisfy their own appetites, while one of the Dwarves disappeared into a recess in the cave and reappeared lugging a large pot—a cauldron, really. This they filled with water—there was plenty to be had outside!—and placed over the fire. From pouches, packs, and pockets, the Dwarves drew forth potatoes, turnips, carrots, and onions and tossed these vegetables into the cauldron. Then a Dwarf unwrapped a piece of salted pork and prepared to add that to the soup. "We have got fresh venison," called Glorfindel. "You are welcome to it."

"Why, thankee, Master Elf," the Nauga chieftain replied. "Pork is good, but I reckon it will keep for another occasion."

"Indeed, being salted, I am sure it will," agreed Glorfindel, gesturing to Legolas that he should give the Dwarves a generous portion of the venison. The young Elf kept his face impassive, trying hard not to display his dislike of the Naugrim. 'I must be politic, like Glorfindel', he told himself firmly.

While the soup bubbled, the Elves and Dwarves broke bread together. Legolas was surprised at how good the oaten loaf tasted. He had never thought of Dwarves as bakers. 'But perhaps they purchased it from one of the villages hereabouts', he told himself. He soon learned that this was not the case, however. "Alberich," called a Dwarf, "your bread grows better with the passing of every moon."

"It is the yeast,' Alberich called back. "This yeast has been in my family for seven times seven generations. Every loaf my folk have made, a pinch of dough has been kept back to start the next batch of dough."

Legolas knew that the Dwarf spoke of the Mother Sponge, the starter dough, and he grew pensive. In those days when he was cared for by Edwen Nana, before armed Elves of his father's household came to escort him to the Great Hall, he loved watching Edwen Nana prepare the week's bread. Always, before she put the loaves in the oven, she would pull away a little piece from the last loaf. This she would place in a little covered bowl that would be tucked in a cool corner of the cottage. A week later, she would knead this bit of dough into the mixture of flour, water, and salt that, risen, would become the loaves that she and Legolas would share during the coming week. "My mother gave me a bit of Mother Sponge when I married my husband," she told Legolas one day. "And her mother gave it her, and _her_ mother before her. Back and back and back, time out of mind. We Elves have always done so. I shouldn't wonder if this bit of dough came from the very first loaf baked in Arda by someone come across the Sundering Sea from the lands of our ancestors."

The elfling Legolas—he was Laiqua, then—was fascinated at the thought that bread could have a genealogy as ancient as the Eldar. He would linger about the oven, inhaling the odor of baking bread—a warm and moist smell that reminded the elfling of a forest on a hot spring day, the fiddleheads uncoiling and the mushrooms sprouting in earth that was both rain-soaked and sun-dappled. 'The yeast begat the dough and the dough begat the bread, and back and back and back', Laiqua would murmur happily as he played with his stick soldiers on the floor of the cottage.

Legolas's reverie was briefly interrupted by Estel. "There is bread left, mellon-nín," said the young Man, proffering Legolas another piece.

"Le hannon," answered Legolas, accepting the slice. He resumed his musings, taking small bites and chewing slowly in order to savor both the bread's flavor and his memories. His reverie was again interrupted by Estel.

"I wonder why Mithrandir insisted on this joint patrol," said the young human. "Our peoples have always patrolled separately."

Legolas smiled at the words 'our peoples', for they showed how closely Estel identified with the Elves. This was to be expected, of course, for Estel had been raised in Elrond's household since the age of two, when he had been brought to that place after the death of his father at the hands of Orcs. At this latter thought, Legolas grew pensive again.

"Mithrandir told Elrond," the Elf said, "that it was vital that the Free Folk of Middle-earth put aside all differences in order to be prepared to defend themselves against a great foe. I suppose by that he means that Lothlórien and Mirkwood and Rivendell Elves must be more mindful of what they have in common and less mindful of petty disputes that have divided us in the past. The camaraderie created amongst warriors on patrol would help achieve that end."

"Mithrandir did not say that Elves alone must put aside their differences," Estel pointed out. "He said that Free Folk should."

"Which is why you are on this patrol, human" grinned Legolas, "else a callow youth such as yourself would have no place amongst us mighty warriors."

"I am not a callow youth!" protested Estel.

"Then why are you sticking out your lip?" Legolas retorted with a smirk. "A warrior does not pout."

For a moment Estel looked as if he would like to wrestle Legolas in requital for his words, but the young human realized that such behavior would prove the Elf correct. Instead, he nodded toward the Dwarves. "They are Free Folk as well."

Legolas followed Estel's gesture. Dishes had materialized, no doubt from yet another well-hidden cache, and a Dwarf was ladling soup into bowls and handing them out to Dwarf and Elf alike. There were not enough bowls and spoons for all, so folk clustered around bowls in twos and threes, and passed spoons from hand to hand. Bearing the last bowl and spoon, Alberich the Baker approached Legolas and Estel. Courteously, he handed the utensil to Legolas. "I see that you like our bread, Master Elf," he said. "Try and see if this soup is its match."

Legolas spooned up a portion and then grinned around the mouthful. It was _very_ good, a perfect balance of the venison provided by the Elves and the roots furnished by the Dwarves. He began to hand the spoon back to the Dwarf, but the Nauga gestured that he should give it to Estel. The young Man tried the soup and like Legolas found it good. He handed the spoon to the Dwarf, and they proceeded in that fashion, taking turns, until the bowl was empty.

'An Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf sharing one bowl', Legolas thought wryly. 'Mithrandir would be pleased'.

With Alberich's leave, he refilled the bowl and took it outside so that Elladan and Elrohir might partake of the meal. With it he brought the last of the bread. The rain had ceased, and Legolas stood with the twins as they ate.

"This bread is very good," said Elladan. Like Legolas, he grew pensive. "It reminds me of the bread that my Nana used to bake. The Head Cook would have gladly supplied our every need, but Nana insisted on baking once a week. Elrohir and I would accompany her to the kitchen and play near the oven."

"That is my memory as well," said Legolas. "My Edwen Nana used to bake, and I, too, would play near the oven."

The three young Elves stood silently for a time. "Do you suppose Dwarves have the same kinds of memories?" Elrohir said suddenly.

"Of bread? I suppose they must," Legolas answered.

"No, of Nanith," Elrohir corrected.

"Only if they have mothers," Elladan pointed out. "There is a story that they spring from the ground as if they were born of rocks."

Legolas considered. Certainly the Dwarves were comfortable in rocky environs, but rock does not give birth to rock. Alberich, like his yeast, had a genealogy. "They must have mothers," the young Elf said decidedly. "They are often seen emerging from caves, for they are miners. I reckon that this fact has given rise to the belief that Dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground."

Elladan and Elrohir nodded agreement. They knew the tale of Aulë having fashioned the first Dwarves from the soil of Arda, but no Dwarf would describe himself as the son of another if each generation of Dwarf were fashioned anew from rock. Legolas must be correct. Dwarves were born; ergo, they must have mothers.

The twins having finished the bread and soup, Legolas took the bowl and spoon and reentered the cave. After returning these objects to Alberich, he went to kneel by Glorfindel, who was resting, leaning against the wall of the cave, his legs stretched out before him, his cloak wrapped around him. Legolas smiled. He had often seen Estel resting in the same fashion, and he knew the young human, who worshipped Glorfindel, imitated the balrog slayer in this as in other matters. Then he addressed Glorfindel respectfully. "The rain has ceased, my Lord."

Glorfindel stretched his arms to either side. "Pity," he said regretfully. "I should have liked an excuse to have spent the night in this cave. The Dwarfs have brought out blankets from some recess, and if we stayed long enough I expect we should discover that they have bolsters and bedsteads hidden hereabouts. Still, if we stayed, we should have no hope of making our rendezvous."

Glorfindel arose. After thanking the Dwarf chieftain for his hospitality, he ordered the Elves to pack their gear. His warriors carried little baggage, so the task was soon done and they were filing out of the cave. The Dwarves had offered them raw vegetables as a parting gift, but the Elves carried no cook pots, so Glorfindel politely declined with a regret that was not feigned. "I hope that someday we shall again break bread with your people," he said at the last.

Several hours later, after a quick march, the Elves spied a thin column of smoke curling up from a hilltop. They made for it and found Mithrandir brewing himself a cup of tea in a tiny camp kettle.

"You should mend your fire, Mithrandir," Glorfindel told him. "It is visible to all, friend and foe alike."

"I thought I had better make a column of smoke to guide you. I feared you were lost."

"Delayed, not lost. A tracker is never lost."

"And a wizard is never late—but you, it seems, are."

"We were stayed by the rain."

"It did not rain here."

"Middle-earth is vast. When it rains in one place, it does not rain in all."

"Yet a cloud shall soon arise that will o'erspread Arda in its entirety."

Glorfindel shrugged his shoulders. Mithrandir was being his usual enigmatic self.

"How did your warriors get on?" resumed the wizard.

"Well, I think. Some, such as Haldir and Legolas, were already well acquainted."

"And now their bond shall be the stronger."

While Glorfindel and Mithrandir talked, the young Elves set about grilling the remainder of the venison on spits suspended over the wizard's fire. As it grew dark, the venison was apportioned. Legolas took his piece and went to sit by the Istar. "Mithrandir," the young Elf said, "why did you suggest that we patrol hereabouts? It is not a region frequented by Orcs. We only came across a few villages of humans, and they were harmless."

"No Orcs?" asked Mithrandir.

"No Orcs."

"Nor Trolls, neither?" the wizard continued.

"No Trolls."

"Yet it is not a region altogether lacking in variety of folk," the Istar mused. "Did you know that it is crisscrossed by trading routes established by Dwarves?"

"No, I did not know that."

"The Dwarves have been traversing the same paths for generations, time out of memory. They are very familiar with the region, and I believe that on their journeys they make use of several well-appointed caves."

Legolas gazed searchingly at the wizard. He suspected that Mithrandir had somehow known that they would wind up in a cave in company with Dwarves.

"I knew that was no ordinary storm," the Elf muttered.

"What's that you say, Legolas? Something about a storm?" The wizard had put on his most provokingly innocent face. Also provokingly, he picked up his pipe, drew on it, and sent a gull to hover over Legolas's head.

"You are always urging me to think well of Dwarves," Legolas grumbled. "I do not understand why."

"You will someday, my lad. Now, let us talk of other matters. How does Estel get on?"

Legolas smiled, his peevishness vanishing at mention of the young human. Noticing that, Mithrandir was glad. 'Estel shall have great need of Legolas someday', the wizard thought, 'and I am sure that when that moment comes, Legolas will defend his friend against all challengers, be they Men or be they Orcs'.

"Estel is a Man, Mithrandir."

"That is no news, Legolas. We always knew he was a Man."

"I do not mean he is of human kind, Mithrandir."

"He is not? I know his behavior has been orcish on occasion, but I really thought he was human."

"Mithrandir!" exclaimed Legolas, "you misunderstand me."

"It is not hard to do. You speak so equivocally—and _I_ am the one accused of being enigmatic!"

Since Elrohir was not there to chide him, Legolas rolled his eyes. "You know very well what I mean: Estel has reached manhood.

"If you understood that I knew what you meant, then why did you say that I misunderstood you," the wizard rejoined, barely able to keep himself from smirking.

Understood. Knew. Meant. Misunderstood. Mithrandir's last sentence was too much to sort out. Legolas groaned melodramatically and then pressed on with his explanation. "Estel is still impulsive on occasion," he said, "and he can be as playful as a puppy—but I like that in him! He would have wrestled me a little while back had Glorfindel not been present. He has immense respect for Glorfindel and always tries to appear mature in his presence."

"Estel could do worse than adopt Glorfindel as a mentor," Mithrandir observed.

"Yes," Legolas retorted. "He could adopt _you _as one!"

Now Mithrandir did smirk, and he sent another smoky gull to hover above Legolas's head.

"Oh, I had forgotten," grinned the Elf. "Estel _has_ adopted you as a mentor—at least insofar as pipe weed is concerned!"

The two friends laughed together. Then Mithrandir arose, picked up his staff, and jammed his oversized hat on his head. "You are not leaving," Legolas exclaimed in dismay. "We have just met up. Surely you will camp with us tonight and not depart before breakfast!"

"I am sorry, my lad, but I am off to the Shire. I must arrange another encounter with Dwarves—this time between a band of Naugrim and a respectable Hobbit by the name of Baggins."

"So you _did_ arrange that we should meet those Dwarves," Legolas crowed triumphantly.

"You give me too much credit," rejoined the wizard. "Elrond is the one who can call up storms. My specialty is fireworks."

"Then you are in cahoots with Elrond," grumbled Legolas.

"If I were, I shouldn't tell you," Mithrandir replied cheekily. "By the by, I almost forgot that I was bidden to give you something."

The wizard rummaged about in his pouch and drew out a small object wrapped in cloth. This proved to be a biscuit.

"From the Head Cook," Mithrandir announced, presenting it to Legolas with a flourish. "Philosophic fellow, that Cook," the wizard continued. "He said, 'An Elf shall not live by bread alone'."

Legolas smiled fondly. He had delightful memories of the aroma of bread baking in Edwen Nana's cottage; he had equally delightful memories of the odors to be found in Rivendell in the kitchen ruled over by the Head Cook. At the same time, he tried to suppress the notion that such pleasant memories must likewise be attached to the smell of Dwarven bread, but he found it difficult to do so. Mithrandir looked keenly at him. "Men say that bread is the staff of life," the wizard observed. "They value it so highly that they will signify an alliance by breaking bread together. Once two Men break bread together, it is considered churlish for one to turn upon the other. Think on it, my lad."

Legolas watched as Mithrandir strode away from the fire. When he could no longer see the wizard, he lifted the biscuit to his lips and nibbled upon it. It was delicious, of course, but it could not be as satisfying as the hearty oaten bread that the Elf had eaten earlier that day. 'I suppose' the young Elf said to himself thoughtfully, 'that I may do no less than a Man. I have broken bread with a Dwarf—aye, and even shared a bowl with one. I do not have to _like_ the next Dwarf I meet, but I shall not be a churl who is ungracious in the face of another's civility. Well,' he amended swiftly, 'at least I shall _try_ not to be a churl'.

Satisfied with the intention, if not the execution, of graciousness, Legolas wrapped himself in his blanket and at once fell asleep, as does any warrior who knows that he must seize the opportunity to rest before being called on watch. His dreams were most satisfying, for in them he was surrounded by the aroma of warm breads: the odor of wheaten loaves and of rye and barley. And of course the odor of oaten cakes, each loaf the descendant of the first loaf baked in Middle-earth. The aromas mingled together until they were woven into one olfactory tapestry and Legolas could no longer tell which odor belonged to Mirkwood, which to Rivendell—and which to a certain cave in the wild lands of what had once been Eriador.


	9. Chapter 9: Earth Wolf

**This episode plays off two narratives, one an Old English poem, the other a modern narrative told from the point of view of one of the characters in the original poem.**

**I am sure many people will recognize that the Old English poem is **_**Beowulf**_**. Now let's hear from folk who recognize which modern narrative influenced me (other than **_**The Hobbit**_**, of course).**

**The verses are very free adaptations of a translation of **_**Beowulf**_** by Francis Barton Gummere that is in the public domain.**

**The description of the dressing of a deer carcass is adapted from "Plot Bunny," chapter six in "The Clearing." That butchering scene was itself inspired by a passage in the Middle English poem **_**Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,**_** a narrative edited by, among others, J.R.R. Tolkien.**

**I'd like to thank the reviewers of the previous chapter of Elf Interludes. Unfortunately, I am unable to list their names because the link that allowed me to read reviews has not been working for several days. I have reported the problem, but so far nothing has changed. In the future, I will once again list the names of reviewers because the reviews now show up in my inbox. However, I do not know whether I will regain access to older reviews.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary****:**

**Aleneth--'No name' (Sindarin)**

**Anomen—'No name' (Greek **_**a**_** and Latin **_**nomen**_**)**

**Beulf—'Bee wolf', i.e., 'Bear' (Old English)**

**Grund, Grundwulf—Earth, Earth wolf (Old English)**

**Hróarr—'Famous Warrior', 'Famous Defender' (Old Norse)**

**naneth—'mother' (Sindarin)**

**scop—'poet'; cf. 'shaper' (Old English)**

**Sigewulf—'Victory wolf' (Old English)**

**Episode 9: Earth Wolf**

"Have you got a name?" the creature said.

Legolas was cautious. "Aleneth," he answered cagily. This was not a falsehood because for many years he had gone by the name 'Anomen'.

"You're one of those Elves, ain't you?" said the creature. "You got pointy ears. Of course," he added, "Orcs have got pointy ears, too. Myself, I don't see no difference between Elves and Orcs."

Legolas was indignant at the comparison, but he suppressed the emotion, for he needed to keep his wits about him. After all, the creature stood between him and the mouth of the cave.

The creature squatted on his haunches and cocked his head, studying the Elf. "I'm not hungry," he announced after awhile. "And even if I was," he continued, "you're too skinny. Although," he added after a moment, "you wouldn't be as tough and stringy as an Orc."

"You contradict yourself," Legolas pointed out. You said you didn't see any difference between Elves and Orcs."

"Don't correct my grammar," the creature said sharply. "I said I didn't see _no_ difference between Elves and Orcs."

"I wasn't correcting your grammar," Legolas said.

"You were! If you warn't—yes, warn't!—you would have repeated my words as I spoke them, not as you think I ought to have spoke them."

Legolas wondered if he had fallen down a rabbit hole rather than wandered through the mouth of a cave. Why was he arguing grammar with a monster?

The creature picked up a long bone—Legolas wondered whether it were Man, Elf, or Orc—and idly tapped it against the floor of the cave.

"Why have you come here?" he said suddenly.

"It was storming, and I was forced to seek shelter. I do not usually frequent caves, and I certainly would have not entered this one had I known it was inhabited."

"Oh, so you don't frequent caves," sneered the creature. "Can't get below the surface of things, that's your problem. You Elves are so one-dimensional."

'For a monster', Legolas thought to himself, 'he is very clever'.

"It is true," he said aloud, "that Elves rarely descend into caves. However, we ascend into trees. Therefore, we cannot be called one-dimensional."

"Well parried," the creature said approvingly. "You give good sport, for all you are so skinny."

"Thank you," Legolas said dryly. He had placed his bow against the wall of the cave near its mouth. He wondered whether he could bolt past the creature and reach it. The monster followed his glance and laughed, an expression that revealed his many pointed teeth. Picking up the bow, he examined it cursorily, then suddenly tossed it to Legolas. Although surprised, the Elf nonetheless caught the weapon. Swiftly the Elf drew an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the bowstring. Again the creature laughed.

"Fire away, Aleneth—if that is your name. Your weapons cannot harm me. No, neither missile nor blade."

The creature wore no armor over its scaly body. Legolas did not release the arrow, but neither did he lower his bow.

"You are wondering whether I speak the truth, Elf? No metal can pierce these scales, for a dragon has put a spell upon me."

"That was very kind of him."

"Kind? Was it kind to leave me world-weary? For what challenge would there be in raiding a hall? The spears of its defenders would bounce off my hide as do pinecones from the bodies of children playing at war."

"Of course," the creature added, "it must be owned that I never face any difficulties in replenishing our larder." He snapped the long bone in half and began to suck on its marrow.

"You said 'our'," Legolas observed. "You have companions?"

"Me and my mum. I've got a mum, you know. People never seem to want to credit that. But consider, Elf, that even a creature such as I must have been begotten."

"Does she dwell with you in this cave?" Legolas asked, his eyes darting from side to side.

The creature laughed at his alarm. "You needn't worry, Elf. She prefers another cave, one well hidden. She's a very private person, is my mum, and won't risk having anyone drop in on her—as you have done to me."

"I am very sorry to have intruded," Legolas said promptly.

"Oh, I am sure you are," the creature said sarcastically. He had finished sucking the marrow from one half of the bone and now turned his attention to the other half. "This cave, now," he continued at last, "it's my private den. It's the place where I come to think."

'And eat', Legolas added silently to himself.

The creature seemed to have divined his thoughts. "And eat," he chortled. "I drop by here and have a snack when there's no time to share a meal with my mum."

"And when would that be?"

"When I notice folk arriving at that hall yonder. I always make it a point to drop in on all gatherings hereabouts—wouldn't be neighborly if I didn't."

Legolas had seen the hall from afar. It was large and once must have been a grand place. Now its thatch was moldering, the carving of a hart's head that surmounted its pitched roof was askew, and its door hung crooked on broken hinges. Legolas was surprised to hear that folk still gathered at that place. Again the creature seemed privy to his thoughts.

"_I_ don't know why they don't give it over. Pride, I suppose—but I can't imagine why they feel entitled to the sentiment. Insignificant beings! I am stronger than they, my scales harder than any armor they might forge, my claws and teeth more fearsome than their swords and spears. And their arrows! Paugh! I brush them aside as I do the mosquito swarms that arise from the fens."

"Perhaps," ventured Legolas, "they are proud because they persevere in the face of impossible odds."

"They're stupid, then. They lose their lives and gain nothing in return."

"They achieve honor."

"Oh, honor," mocked the creature. He waved the broken bone in the air. "Here's honor for you. Serving as a meal for a monster, that's honorable, innit? Oh, you needn't deny it," he added as Legolas opened his mouth to speak. "I know you think I'm a monster."

"I don't deny it," Legolas answered defiantly. "Can _you_ deny that you are a monster?"

"Yes, I can. _You_ don't like my choice of diet. How does that make me a monster? Tell me, do you eat venison?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you use that bow of yours to bring down your prey?"

"I do, but—"

"Do you use your fine matched blades to skin your prey, gut it, carve it into gobbets of flesh?"

"That is true, but—"

"I have seen your folk butchering carcasses. First, you Elves cut the throat of your prey—there, at the base, where the throat meets the chest."

The creature gestured at his neck. "Then," he continued, "you let the carcass bleed. Next, you hack off the four limbs. It takes a lot of force to cut through the joints, don't it?"

Legolas stood silent, holding his bow loosely. The creature's words reminded him of the instructions given Legolas by his Edwen Nana when he slew a rabbit for sport and she forced him to dress the carcass.

"Before you go any further," the creature went on after a minute, looking hard at Legolas, "you skin the carcass, peeling it as if it was a piece of fruit. Then you slit open the belly from the base of the breastbone to the crotch and remove the bowels. You tie off the intestines; you don't wish to spill their contents and foul the meat."

Legolas continued silent.

"After you have removed the intestines intact," the creature continued, "you set them aside to be discarded. Then you grab hold of the throat and separate out the esophagus and the windpipe. You think these pieces offal; you discard them as well."

"Next," the creature went on, "you slice away the shoulders. You lift them clear of the bone. You put the meat on the skin, the pelt that once girded the animal now a receptacle for its dismembered parts. You're far from done, though. There's plenty more edible bits must be removed."

Legolas was still silent, but he was scowling at the creature.

"You need to break the breast bone; you want the chest to pull away into two pieces. But you throw away that bit of gristle from the end of the breastbone. You may discard the lungs as well, but other organ meats, such as the heart, kidneys, and liver, you think good eating."

Legolas remembered that on the day he had slain the rabbit, no part of an animal had seemed good eating.

"You turn the carcass over," the creature was saying. "You want to separate the meat from either side of the backbone. After you have made the necessary cuts, you lift the flesh free. You pull hard to detach these pieces from the spine that once gave the animal its shape."

"Next," the creature said, "you carve away the meat from the haunches. Generally, you don't bother about the head, although Men, I have observed, may eat the brains and preserve the head as a trophy. I reckon you Elves think yourselves too fine to indulge yourself in that fashion," the creature added sarcastically.

Legolas flushed. "It is true that dressing a carcass is not a pretty sight," he conceded. "But," he continued, "it is venison we eat and not the flesh of Men."

"Tell me, Elf," retorted the creature, "can a deer feel pain and fear?"

"Yes, but a deer has not the capacity to grasp the notion of death. It reacts instinctively, without any understanding of its plight."

"Oh, so it's understanding keeps an Elf from eating a creature," the monster said. "Well, then," he added slyly, "I suppose you Elves do not object to dining upon infants—after all, although babies feel pain and perhaps fear, they have not the wit to grasp the notion of death."

"You twist my words," protested Legolas. "It is true that an infant can have no notion of death, but unlike a deer, a baby will grow to have an understanding of such matters."

"So you would never gorge yourself upon infant flesh because, even if the infant has no more understanding than a beast, it will grow into greater awareness?"

"Yes," Legolas said triumphantly.

"A fine distinction," said the creature. "But," he smirked, "according to your reasoning, you can have no objections to eating the elderly."

Legolas stared perplexed at the creature.

"A doddering old Man," the creature observed, grinning at the Elf's confusion, "may have no more understanding than an infant—but unlike the infant, he will never grow into greater awareness. So I reckon, if it be right to slay and devour a deer that feels pain and fear but lacks understanding, then it must be right to make a meal of an agéd Man."

Legolas cast about for an answer to this argument. "It is wrong to eat a being numbered amongst the Free Folk," he said at last. "They are beloved of Eru Ilúvatar, who gave them souls."

"Where," scoffed the creature, "is the soul of a mewling newborn who has less wit than the sorriest village mongrel? Where is the soul of an old fool who gazes upon the world with eyes as empty as those of a cow that chews his cud unthinkingly, with no wishes, no desires, no notion as to what he is or what he is about?"

"Tell me, Elf," the creature went on, "have you ever looked into the eyes of a Man whose brain has been cloven by a sword or scorched by a fever? What do you see within those eyes?"

The Elf had gazed into such eyes and had seen the opacity of nothingness.

"Sometimes," the creature said, "a manchild is born with a skull that slopes back from the eyebrows. If such an infant survives, he shambles through life with no more awareness than a sheep would have. Did your precious Eru neglect to ensoul the ovine infant?"

"The children of Men, Elves, even Dwarves," Legolas said stubbornly, "all these folk have souls."

"Soul! Paugh! The word means nothing! I have seen many brains, and those of your precious Free Folk are large in proportion to the bodies that bear them. Aye, and the segments of the brain differ proportionately from the corresponding segments found in the animals you prey upon. Your precious 'soul' is nothing but the cleverness that arises from being fat-headed. Let the brain be injured or diseased, and the 'soul' departs even if the body continues to breathe."

"Your arguments may on the surface seem sound," Legolas retorted, "but anyone can see that there is a great difference between Men, Elves, and Dwarves and other creatures."

"There is a vast difference between a worm and a snake, a snake and a bird, a bird and a wolf. That there are discontinuities between creatures, that is plain. Yet there is no quality that you Free Folk do not share, to a greater or lesser degree, with other creatures. Fearfulness, affection, playfulness, forethought—all these and more are found amongst the animals to whom you would deny a soul."

Legolas noticed that the creature had become more and more well spoken as they had conversed. Again, the creature seemed to divine what he was thinking. "I'm articulate for a monster, aren't I?" he asked grinning. "Tell me, Elf, do I have a soul?"

Legolas looked into the creature's eyes. He saw intelligence and wit and feeling. He could imagine the creature bestowing his affection upon the mother who had birthed him, and he could imagine the mother doting over him in return. He hesitated. That a monster should have a soul was not in keeping with the tales told of Eru Ilúvatar—that Eru had created Men and Elves with souls and that he had later furnished Dwarves with souls as well. No other creatures had been so blessed—not in the stories, anyway. Yet he understood this creature and the creature understood him in a way that would be impossible for any animal, even the cleverest. "Yes," the Elf said finally. "You have a soul."

The creature laughed gleefully and tossed the broken bone to Legolas, who caught it as he had formerly caught the bow. To his surprise, the Elf saw that it was the leg bone of a deer. He looked inquiringly at the creature.

"Yes, it is a deer bone," the creature chuckled. "You are very credulous if you believe I would dine upon Men, in whose bodies I recognize myself."

"But you said that you have seen the brains of Men. In any event, you implied you had," Legolas pointed out. "Have you not slain Men and devoured their brains?"

"Yes, I have seen the brains of Men, and I warrant you have as well. You are a warrior. You have stood upon the battlefield and surveyed the wreckage left in the wake of war. You have gazed on the dismembered limbs and the brains and bowels spilt upon the ground. I have seen these things as well. I have watched from the shelter of the trees, aghast at the behavior of folk who howl at the sight of me but do not deem their own behavior hideous."

"And the ruined hall? Have you not repeatedly attacked that place?"

"That hall was attacked not by me but by human raiders who return each season to reive the people of what small wealth they have been able to accumulate the previous year. You thought I was the culprit, but be certain that in this place it is only Men who prey upon Men. No doubt," the creature added dryly, "you would prefer to think a monster the culprit."

Legolas winced. "I own that what you say is true," he said shamefacedly. "I have a friend who is a human. It troubles me to think that his kin would behave in the fashion you describe."

"You Elves are not without sin, neither," the creature observed. "Or have you forgotten the kinslaying committed by the Noldor against the Teleri of Alqualondë? Or do you not remember the deaths of Dior, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir at the hands of the Sons of Fëanor during the sack of Doriath? Or perhaps you have forgotten the kinslaying committed at the Havens of Sirion. Many Noldor and Sindar were slain there by the surviving Sons of Fëanor, only two of whom themselves lived to see the sun set upon the bloodied walls of the last elven refuge in Beleriand."

"How do you know these things?" Legolas said in amazement.

"Poor as that hall is, people still gather there on great occasions. I smell the boar roasting, but I don't care for that. There are deer enough hereabouts. But the singing! It draws me as the lodestone draws steel. I creep near, careful to stay outside the light cast by the torches, and I listen. I listen! I don't credit half of what I hear, but the stories thrill me to my marrow. The scops sing tales of both Elves and Men. Their ballads are beautiful and terrible—sometimes at one and the same time."

'How very like we are', Legolas thought to himself, 'for we Elves love story and song above all else'.

Legolas smiled as he saw in his mind's eye the Hall of Fire in Rivendell. During his visits to Imladris, he had spent many an hour in that chamber listening as his fellow Elves sang songs that were, yes, both beautiful and terrible.

"Venison?" the creature interrupted, holding up a haunch of meat.

"If I may cook it," Legolas replied. He was still holding an arrow, but now he slipped it back into his quiver. His bow he laid against the wall.

"I don't mind if you cook it,' the creature said. "Truth be told, I prefer my meat roasted. You mustn't bruit that about, however, for it would ruin my reputation, and I depend mightily upon my reputation. It is what keeps people from looking me up. Not that I mind _your_ visit," the creature added hastily. "After all, you didn't drop in with the intention of killing me."

"Does that happen often?" asked Legolas as he withdrew his fire kit from his pouch.

"Not as often as formerly. I dealt with the last would-be hero pretty fiercely, and that seems to have discouraged the other aspiring heroes who might have followed in his wake. I crept up to the hall the night of his arrival and listened to his bragging. He claimed feats that nobody could have credited. He boasted that he had swum for days in full armor, weighted down with weapons, lashed by storms, assailed by sea monsters. Folk were too polite to gainsay his lies—all save one, anyway. The one who challenged him, though, he had a reputation for being irascible, so folk shushed him."

"What did you do to this would-be hero?" Legolas asked.

"Well, as he came looking for trouble, I gave him what he wanted. I broke his right arm and his left leg. It seemed like a balanced response to me."

The creature broke into his toothy grin, which was beginning to grow on Legolas. "I told you my name was Aleneth," the Elf said. "That was true, as far as it goes, but I am also known as Legolas."

"Legolas? Greenleaf in the language of Men. Very good. And now, as you have trusted me with your name, I shall trust you with mine. I am Grund."

"Grund. That sounds like the mannish word for 'ground'."

"To Men, the Grund is the earth that lies beneath the waters. Without the Grund, there would be no life, for the waters would slip away."

"You are the Foundation," Legolas said approvingly.

Before Grund could answer, Legolas saw a familiar figure slip in at the entrance to the cave. "Glorfindel," Legolas began. "No!" he shouted as the balrog slayer brought his sword down upon Grund's head. The sword bounced off the spell-bound scales, but Grund staggered, dazed. Confusedly, he flailed his arms. Glorfindel cast aside his sword and seized one of Grund's arms. "Glorfindel, no!" shouted Legolas, rushing toward his two friends. He meant to separate them, but Grund was still flailing his free arm, and he accidentally struck Legolas in the face. The Elf fell to the ground. Dizzy, he lay there as Glorfindel continued to grapple with Grund, who was trying to pull free. Legolas could hear cracking noises, and then a sudden snapping. Someone—Grund, he thought—was howling. He heard a rush of retreating footfalls, and then the cave fell silent. With an effort, Legolas lifted his head. Glorfindel stood before him, in his hands a scaly arm torn off at the shoulder. Sick at heart, Legolas closed his eyes. "I must leave you for a little while," he heard Glorfindel say. "I must follow our foe."

Legolas forced his eyes open again. "You mustn't," he gasped.

"He has still got one arm," Glorfindel said grimly. "One arm, its claws sharp, and a mouth full of many jagged teeth. I must make sure of him."

Once more Legolas tried to protest, but Glorfindel picked up his sword and swiftly left the cave.

Hours later, Glorfindel returned in triumph to the cave, where he found Legolas still huddled upon the floor. He helped the young Elf to sit up and gave him a sip from the tiny vial of miruvor that he always carried in his pack. Legolas revived, but only a little. Perhaps, the balrog slayer said to himself, his friend's spirits would be raised if he heard how their foe had been tracked to its lair.

"I followed the beast's spoor to a waterfall," Glorfindel began. "The trail seemed to vanish at its base," he continued, "but I thought to probe the waterfall itself. Behind the watery curtain was a cave. There I found our foe. He had bled to death, so my fears to some extent were proved groundless."

Legolas winced at the word 'groundless', causing Glorfindel to stare anxiously at him. 'He is still shaken by the blow he received from the monster', thought the balrog slayer. 'I must continue to divert him'. Aloud he continued, "Although our enemy was dead, my adventure was not at an end. From a recess in the cave sprang a she-creature. I struck at her with my sword, but it was of no more use against her than it had been against the male. For the second time I was forced to cast it aside. However, I noticed a great sword gleaming as if by magic upon the wall. I seized it, and it proved efficacious. It must have had spells placed upon it to counter the evil power of those ogres. The she-creature soon lay dead beside the he-creature."

"She was his Naneth," Legolas said bleakly.

"That is possible," said Glorfindel, still mistaking Legolas's grief for the consequence of a blow to the head. "If that is so, she will never breed another."

Miserable, Legolas closed his eyes again and let his spirit drift. Alarmed now, Glorfindel picked him up and carefully carried him from the cave to their camp, where the two had parted earlier to scout adjacent portions of the valley. Once there, he laid the young Elf on a bed of skins and searched his body for wounds. 'Perhaps', the balrog slayer said to himself, 'the monster did him an injury before I arrived and rescued him'. The only sign of injury that Glorfindel could find, however, was a bruise upon the young Elf's face.

The next morning Legolas continued in low spirits, but he insisted that he was well in body. Glorfindel was not persuaded, but he decided that they should break camp nonetheless. 'It may be best to return to Rivendell', the balrog slayer mused, 'for there he will be under the care of Elrond, who is very wise in the ways of healing'. As soon as they arrived at Rivendell, however, Legolas went straight to the Hall of Fire. "I don't need any draughts or potions," he told Elrond when that elf-lord, summoned by Glorfindel, pursued him to that chamber. Curling up near one of the fires, Legolas listened for hours to songs both beautiful and terrible until at last Elrond commanded him to betake himself to his bed. "In the absence of Thranduil, I am your father," the elf-lord said firmly.

Over the next several weeks, Legolas seemed to recover from whatever it was that ailed him. He resumed patrolling, sometimes riding out with Glorfindel, sometimes with Elrond's twin sons. When not on patrol, he spent as much time as he could in the Hall of Fire, and he was there late one night when a party of Men arrived at Rivendell and requested and were granted the hospitality of Elrond. After dining, the Men joined their hosts to the Hall of Fire. They were fourteen in all, and their leader was a huge Man who, although muscular, walked with a limp. Legolas noticed that he favored his left leg.

No sooner had the Men swaggered through the doorway than the leader began to talk loudly. As the Man recounted the band's many adventures, Legolas noticed he dwelled especially upon his own exploits. "I am Beulf," the Man proclaimed, "and like a Bear I crush all my foes."

The Elf soon grew tired of the Man's boasting, and began to talk quietly with Glorfindel. Both Elves suddenly turned their heads in the direction of the Man, however, as he began to brag of one exploit in particular.

"Hart Hall it was called," the Man was saying. "It had once been a grand place. But when my Men and I arrived—there were fifteen of us then—its thatch was moldering, the carving of a hart's head that surmounted its pitched roof was askew, and its door hung crooked on broken hinges. Long had it been subject to the depredations of the monster Grundwulf. The creature did not survive our visit, however. With the loss of only one Man, we saw the beast defeated. With my own hands I delivered unto Hróarr, lord of Hart Hall, the arm of the monster, torn off at the shoulder."

Legolas looked inquiringly at Glorfindel. "I did not bury the arm," the balrog slayer said softly. "I cast it out beside the mouth of the cave. Anyone could have happened upon it."

In a quiet fury, Legolas watched Beulf toast his own exploits, which grew more and more exaggerated in the telling. At last the Man boasted that he and his band were on their way to battle a worm. Legolas doubted that the braggart would have the courage to actually face a dragon. He was suddenly seized with a desire to give the Man his comeuppance.

"Master Bear," he called, "it is said that the bravest feat one can perform is to creep into a dragon's lair and come away with treasure from its hoard."

"Whilst the dragon is within?" asked Beulf. Legolas saw a hint of fear in his eyes.

"Oh no, Master Bear," the Elf replied, keeping a straight face. "It is not necessary that the dragon be within. A dragon's lair is so perilous that even entering that place is sufficient proof of courage. One need only carry off something valuable—one piece will suffice—to show that one performed the deed."

"I will do it," proclaimed Beulf, holding up his goblet. "Worm, you are not safe from the bee-wolf! Creep as far as you may, I will throw defiance in your rotting teeth."

'Fool!' thought Legolas. 'Dragon teeth never rot. The flames the worms emit keep their fangs quite clean and free of putrefaction'.

The following day Beulf and his followers rode away, singing brave songs of boldness in battle. "Great praise was sung of Sigewulf," they chanted.  
"for doughty-in-combat he slew the dragon,  
the hoarder of heirlooms. Under hoary rock  
that warrior dared the deed alone,  
achieved his fearful quest, no kinsman beside.  
Blade most fearsome, his falchion pierced  
that wondrous worm. Impaled upon wall  
by the best of blades, the dragon died in its blood.  
Thus by daring did the dreaded one win  
the right to rule over ring-hoard."

Legolas was not impressed by their brave caroling. 'They will abandon their quest as soon as they remember another part of that poem', he said to himself.

'Now, coil by coil, swiftly slithered and crept  
that warlike worm', he recited to himself.  
'Shield sheltered body a shorter spell  
than hero-king had hoped;  
Fate failed him, and companions fled.  
Lorn, his enfeebled arm he lifted aloft;  
Friendless he fought with his foe.  
Trusty sword betrayed him, edge turned—  
bright blade did not bite to the bone.  
Baleful barrow-keeper, warrior's bane,  
waxed wild at the wounded thane,  
in fury flamed furiously—  
No victory in the face of fierce fire  
for the warrior forsaken by friend and fate'.

Nothing further was heard of Beulf and his band for several months. Then one day, as the sun was setting, a lone Man staggered into Imladris, his garments scorched, the skin of his face and hands peeling. He collapsed at the gate to Rivendell and was carried gently to the House of Healing, where he lay insensible for several days. At last he rallied and was able to recount what had happened to his companions.

"We arrived at the dragon's redoubt and hid nearby, watching the entrance," he began. "We knew the worm was within," he continued, "for steam continually escaped from the adit, and from time to time the earth trembled."

His mouth dry, the Man paused to sip from a goblet proffered by Elrond. Then he resumed the tale.

"At length, after a fortnight, the dragon came forth, no doubt to feast upon the cattle of some unfortunate farmer. As soon as it was out of sight, Beulf ran into the lair, torch in hand, and in a little while he reappeared bearing a gold cup encrusted with jewels. At once we mounted our horses, for we wished to be far away from the barrow before the dragon returned. Alas! The hooves of horses are no match for the wings of a worm! Discovering the loss of the cup, the dragon darted toward the sun and from on high was able to espy our party. He swooped down and blasted us with his blazing breath. Hidden under the smoldering bodies of my companions, I alone survived."

Later that evening, Elrond retold the story to Legolas and others of his household. The young Elf listened to the tale soberly. "I should never have taunted him," he observed to Glorfindel the next day. "I am to blame not only for his death but for those of his companions."

"Beulf was both a braggart and a fool," Glorfindel replied. "Everyone knows that it is foolhardy to remove even so much as a coin from a wormhoard, for its loss would not go unnoticed by a dragon whose only occupation is the numbering of his treasure. The Man was greedy for fame and disregarded what he knew to be true. Moreover, had he not already declared that he meant to attempt the dragon, even before you mocked him by daring him to steal from its hoard? Given that, how can you blame yourself?"

"What you say is true, but he might have turned back had I not put it in his mind that he ought to pilfer something from the barrow. I encouraged him believe that this was an exploit within his reach."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Beulf believed what he wanted to believe. He was the sort of Man who will swagger from adventure to adventure until finally meeting his death in the course of some ill-advised escapade. A sea monster, a troll, an ogre, a dragon—something would have gotten him in the end."

"It was indeed an ill-advised escapade," Legolas said wryly. "The problem is that the ill-advice came from _me_."

"If he had had any wit," Glorfindel retorted, "he would have perceived at once that you were twitting him. Are you to blame for his stupidity? You only meant to humiliate him, and as for his death, that is on his head and his head alone. If he has still got one," the balrog slayer added in a deadpan.

Glorfindel's mordant humor had no effect on Legolas. The young Elf sighed. "It is true I only mean to humiliate him," he conceded. "However," the Sinda added, "it is not to my credit that I wished to do so."

"You are an Elda, not a Maia," Glorfindel said gently. "You must not strive for a perfection not within your reach. Indeed, even the Maiar are not perfect—witness our friend Mithrandir. Or did you think smoking was a virtue?"

Now Legolas did laugh. The quirky, irascible wizard—for all his power and wisdom, he was not the avatar of perfection!

"Moreover," continued Glorfindel, encouraged by his young friend's change of mood, "you must own that you were provoked." Legolas had at last told him the story of his encounter with Grund, and the balrog slayer understood how indignant the young Elf must have been at hearing his friend the object of calumny. "I myself," Glorfindel continued, "must confess that I was glad to see you bait Beulf, and like you, I did not expect the outcome to be so dire. Now, then, Legolas, you had better not lay claim to more virtue than I profess!"

Here Glorfindel tried to look fierce, and Legolas smiled whole-heartedly, unable to remain melancholy in the face of his friend's efforts to cheer him. Just then Estel came into the room, in Rivendell on one of his increasingly rare visits, for he spent more and more time on patrol in the north. Happily, Legolas bade farewell to Glorfindel and accompanied the young human to the garden, for Estel was eager to spend some time catching up with his foster-brother.

Meanwhile, far to the west, a party of thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit huddled on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, the Dwarves marveling over the jewel-encrusted cup that the Halfling had snatched from Smaug's hoard. Within the mountain, the dragon meditated upon the theft. "I don't know what it is about that cup," he grumbled, belching smoke. "Those jewels are paste. Howsomever, I can't let the crime go unanswered, else the neighborhood will decline." With that, Smaug waddled to the entrance of Erebor. Spreading his wings, he arose into the air and commenced the flight that would seal the fate of many a Man—and his own.


	10. Chapter 10: The Arrogance of Power

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 9 of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Ne'ith5, Vanime18431, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you**** unless you have disabled the private messaging feature****.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**The episode in which Saruman tries to drown Legolas is found in the story "The Grief of Gandalf the Grey."**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**Bagronk—Dung-pit (Black Speech)**

**Búbhosh—Pig-guts (Black Speech)**

**Glog—Filth (Black Speech)**

**ion-nín—my son (Sindarin) **

**Pushdug—Stinking (Black Speech)**

**Snaga—Slave (Black Speech)**

**Episode 10: The Arrogance of Power**

"Legolas?"

"I am here, Estel."

Reassured, Aragorn closed his eyes and let his head fall back upon Legolas's rolled-up cloak, which had been pressed into service as a pillow. Legolas wished he could light a fire so that he could examine the young Man's wounded leg, but he feared bringing Orcs down upon them. With no moon and the stars obscured by clouds, not even Legolas could see clearly enough to do more than he had already done. He had carefully cleaned and bandaged the wound; now he could only hope that it was neither poisoned nor infected. One good sign: the leg was cool to the touch. Nor did Legolas smell the odor of putrefaction.

Suddenly Legolas tensed and reached for his knife. Someone or something was near.

"Fine way to greet a friend," came a familiar voice.

"Glorfindel," Legolas exhaled. "I had hoped you would come looking for us."

The balrog-slayer crouched beside Aragorn and touched the back of his hand to the young Man's forehead.

"No fever."

The balrog-slayer felt the side of Aragorn's throat, near where the neck meets the jaw.

"Steady pulse."

"You are as laconic as a Ranger," observed Legolas.

"I should be. I have spent enough time in their company," returned Glorfindel. He shook Aragorn's shoulder.

"What are you doing? He has only just now fallen soundly asleep."

"A company of Orcs is following your trail. I had to make shift to get ahead of them. Between the two of us, we must contrive to bring Estel to a place of safety."

In spite of his injury, Aragorn became alert almost at once, which bespoke his training at the hands both of Glorfindel and of Halbarad, the Dúnadan's kinsman.

"What is afoot?" whispered the young Man.

"Orcs are afoot," replied Glorfindel. "And now you will be. Up with you, Estel."

Without a word of complaint, Aragorn allowed Glorfindel and Legolas to help him to stand, although he could not suppress a wince as he tried to put a little weight on his injured leg.

"I wish we had our horses," Legolas said longingly.

"Men have a proverb," Glorfindel answered. "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. But you know we could not have taken our horses into this dense forest."

"Glorfindel," Aragorn interrupted. "Even if you and Legolas support me as I walk, I shall not be able to move swiftly enough to outpace a band of Orcs following a blood trail. I cannot believe you plan that we should outrun them—outlimp them, I mean."

"Estel speaks the truth," Legolas agreed. "We cannot escape by speed; we must rely on cleverness."

"Yes, you and Estel are correct," conceded Glorfindel. "The best strategy would be to throw them off Estel's trail. Very well: I shall backtrack and show myself to them. Whilst they pursue me, you two shall make your way to the meadow where we left our horses—then you will have your wish, Legolas!"

Legolas did not altogether agree with this plan. "Glorfindel, you are stronger than I," he pointed out, "but I am swifter than you. Would it not be better if _you_ helped Estel reach the horses whilst _I_ led the Orcs astray?"

Glorfindel hesitated. It went against his instincts to allow the younger Elf to put himself in peril. Yet he could not deny that Legolas's plan was the better one. He nodded.

"Very well, Legolas. You lead the Orcs astray whilst I assist Estel."

The matter settled, Legolas picked up a bloody cloth that he had used to clean Aragorn's wound and tied it around his wrist. Glorfindel nodded approvingly. The Orcs would surely be thrown off Aragorn's trail if they both spotted the alternative 'prey' and smelled its blood. The balrog-slayer put a steadying arm around Aragorn's waist, and the young Man draped his arm across the Elf's shoulder. "Stay well, Legolas," Aragorn called softly as he and Glorfindel disappeared into the forest. With one last glance over his shoulder, Legolas began to run toward the oncoming Orcs.

The young Elf did not have to run far. Very soon Legolas heard the Orcs crashing through the forest, and Legolas shuddered at the thought of what might have happened had they overtaken Estel and him. The Elf could have climbed a tree and so escaped, but that would not have been possible for Estel, weakened as he was by the injury to his leg.

But Aragorn was not with him now, so Legolas swung into a tree, careful to choose one whose limbs were near enough to another tree so that he might escape when the Orcs swarmed about its base. Then he drew an arrow, nocked it, and waited until the last Orc in the column was passing beneath the tree. Firing straight down, he pierced the top of the Orc's skull. The creature fell forward without uttering a sound, but his body smashed into the back of the Orc in front of him. His erstwhile comrade spun about, snarling, scimitar in hand, but then stopped, puzzled.

"Búbhosh," he bellowed, "Glog has got an arrow in the top of his head."

The column broke, and the Orcs clustered around Glob, elbowing one another to get a better view. Chief among the rout was Búbhosh. Apparently he had not risen to that height on account of cleverness.

"Somebody hereabouts musta shot straight up," he said sagely. "Arrow went straight up it, it did, and came straight down, and there's an end of Glog."

"If it went straight up and came straight down," said one of his subalterns, apparently a little cleverer than his chief, "then he what shot it oughter be standing right here—and I don't see 'im."

"You questioning me, Bagronk?" snarled Búbhosh.

"No, nope, not no way, no how," protested Bagronk, backing up hastily and putting another Orc between himself and his master.

While this exchange had been taking place, another Orc had been sniffing the air. Búbhosh suddenly noticed. "What are you about, Pushdug?" he demanded.

Pushdug licked his lips. "Blood," he gloated. "I smell blood."

Búbhosh swiveled his head from side to side. "Where?" he demanded eagerly.

Pushdug looked up—and was rewarded with an arrow through the eye. Legolas got off one more shot before he lightly ran along a branch and leaped from his tree to the adjacent one. Bagronk seemed the cleverest of the lot, so Legolas aimed at him, shooting him through the throat as he had gaped up at the Elf's hiding place.

"Climb that tree," ordered Búbhosh, pointing, of course, at the wrong tree. The Orcs milled around the base of the tree, no one willing to commence the climb. Búbhosh menaced one with his scimitar. "You, Snaga, up that tree, or I'll shove this blade up your—"

Snaga began climbing before Búbhosh had an opportunity to complete the threat, let alone act upon it.

Legolas allowed Snaga to scramble halfway up the tree before he felled him with an arrow through the side of the head. The Orc plummeted like a boulder onto the goblins clustered beneath him, and several of his fellows were knocked halfway into next week, as Men are wont to say. The others began to argue as to the direction of the shot. "The arrow's sticking out of the right side of his head. Shot came from the right," said one.

"Your right or his right?" asked another.

"My right."

"Then it was his left. Arrow came from the left."

"No, our right."

"His left."

"Right."

"Left."

"Shaddup!" snarled Búbosh. "Lean 'im up against the tree. No, with his face to the tree! Right. The arrow came from his left."

"The arrow came from the right but then the left?"

"No, the arrow came from the left."

"But you said 'right', then 'left'.

"I meant you was leaning 'im up right. The arrow came from the left."

While this discussion was taking place, Legolas quietly slipped back into the original tree, where he crouched silently until the Orcs had moved off to the left and their heavy footfalls could no longer be heard. Then he descended to the ground. Before he could take a step, however, he sensed a presence. Swiftly he nocked an arrow and drew his bowstring taut.

"Will you always greet me in this fashion?" came a dry voice.

"Glorfindel!" Legolas cried, lowering his bow at once. "Is Estel safe?"

"He is horsed and cantering toward Rivendell as we speak." Glorfindel glanced about. "Four arrows, four Orcs," he said approvingly. "And the others?"

"They are left," grinned Legolas.

"Yes, I know they are left. Shall we take them on, or shall we return to Rivendell and send a patrol after them?"

"A score remain," Legolas said. "We could pick them off, but I deem it would be safer—and therefore wiser—to send a larger force against them than we two."

Glorfindel nodded approvingly. "You have learned from your first encounter from the Orcs—for am I correct in surmising that you and Estel _did_ try to take them on?"

Legolas nodded, shamefaced. He did not mention that it had been Aragorn's idea, for that would sound as if he were trying to lay blame. After all, even though it had been the young Man's idea, he, the Elf, was centuries old, with the wisdom attendant upon age, and should have steadfastly gainsaid the notion.

Glorfindel clapped him on the shoulder. "All's well that ends well," he said consolingly. "Now retrieve your arrows and let us be off."

In the end Legolas could recover only two of his arrows, for the ones in Glog and Snaga's heads could not have been drawn without hacking at the skulls, and Elves do not mutilate the corpses of even their worst enemies.

After Legolas retrieved the two missiles, he and Glorfindel threaded their way through the forest as quickly as they could, making for the meadow where their horses awaited them. Aragorn was an excellent horseman, and he was in the open, where Orcs could not take him unawares; still, Glorfindel and Legolas were anxious to regain his company. Once they arrived at the meadow and were mounted, they urged their steeds into a gallop, and soon they saw Aragorn in the distance. The human reined in his horse and allowed them to catch up, and the trio proceeded at a gentle pace for several hours. As they rode, they discussed the Orcs that Legolas and Aragorn had stumbled upon.

"They were larger than the Orcs that lurk in the crevasses of the Misty Mountains," Legolas observed. "Yet they were clad like those creatures, and spoke with their accents."

"Do you suppose," Aragorn asked, "that they could have arisen from an admixture of two breeds?

"Or perhaps," Glorfindel said thoughtfully, "they represent a mingling of two races—Trolls and Goblins, or Goblins and Men. Such unions are known to have taken place from time to time."

"But never has an entire company of such been encountered," Legolas pointed out. "The sporadic matings of the past cannot account for such an occurrence."

"You think they have been bred purposefully?" Aragorn said.

"Aye, I do."

"No doubt Sauron is behind this new devilry," said Glorfindel.

"The Dark Lord has but newly reestablished himself in Barad-dûr," observed Legolas, "and we have seen no sign that he is yet able to project his power beyond the borders of that land. We must look for an explanation nearer to hand."

Glorfindel frowned. "I know what you are going to say: that Saruman has contrived to manufacture these creatures. Why, Legolas, do you persist in blaming Saruman for all the evils in this land?"

"I have cause to know his wickedness. Or have you forgotten that he tried to drown me?"

"You have no proof of that, Legolas, and there is that which speaks against your belief in his culpability. Consider! Saruman did not push you into the Isen. A rock shifted beneath your feet, and you toppled in."

"Glorfindel, he led me to a place where he knew the footing was treacherous."

"Ion-nín, I share your dislike for Saruman, but I must point out to you that you have often enough led _yourself_ into places where the footing was treacherous. I do not believe you evil on that account—merely heedless."

"Was Saruman heedless, then?" Aragorn broke in. "He is an Istar. I would have thought him proof against heedlessness."

Glorfindel sighed. "The Maiar are lesser Ainur. We all know Mithrandir can be snappish and irascible; why cannot Saruman have his flaws?"

"Irascibility is not on the same order as heedlessness," Legolas argued, "for heedlessness bespeaks a lack of judgment, and judgment is a quality that by his very nature an Istar must possess. Saruman will be considered in his actions because he cannot be but otherwise. Therefore it cannot have heedlessness that led Saruman to place me in danger."

"If Saruman is considered in his actions," returned Glorfindel, "that is as much to say that he is wise—and in his wisdom why would he perform such an evil act as to attempt the life of an elfling who had done him no harm?"

"He may have held it wisdom to have done so," replied Legolas. "I had thwarted him on several occasions. Moreover, one may be considered in one's actions and yet at root be motivated by an evil will—one that desires to dominate everything around it, even something as insignificant as a foundling Elf."

"Glorfindel," Aragorn interjected, "you must admit that a Maia is susceptible of corruption. You yourself once fought such a corrupted being, a Balrog, an Ainu who became servant to Morgoth."

Glorfindel shuddered slightly. "One of the Valaraukar," he said softly. "True, they were once numbered amongst the Ainur but are now creatures of Morgoth. But Estel," he said more loudly, "you can hardly compare Saruman to a Balrog!"

"_I _can," Legolas interjected. "He is as powerful and deadly as any Valarauko."

"As is Mithrandir," Glorfindel pointed out. "Or do you not believe that Mithrandir is the match for a Balrog?"

Legolas did not answer at first. Was it possible, he wondered, that Mithrandir should ever be bested by one of the Valarauko, who like the wizard was a Maia? He pushed the thought aside. "I am sure that Mithrandir would be the equal of any Balrog," he said firmly.

"Then we are agreed that both Mithrandir and Saruman are as powerful and deadly as any Valarauko. You do not hold that fact against Mithrandir; that being so, you should not hold the selfsame fact against Saruman."

While Legolas and Glorfindel were engaged in this debate, miles away, in Orthanc, Saruman glowered at a band of Orcs that had recently returned from patrol. "Where is Búbhosh?" he demanded of the cowering Orcs. His only answer was groveling, the Orcs throwing themselves at his feet and gibbering.

"Two score and ten I sent out against one Elf; a score return," Saruman raged. "How could you have failed, the odds being so heavily weighted in your favor?"

"The force was twice as strong as we expected. There was two of 'em," whined one of the Orcs.

"Two? Two Elves?"

"No, a human was in it."

"A human! Paugh!" Saruman waved his hand dismissively. "Humans are weak."

"This one warn't," the Orc replied.

Saruman glared furiously at the goblin, who groveled lower than before, if that were possible.

"Out of my sight," the wizard snarled. "You and your fellows are not worthy to be numbered amongst the Uruk-hai. To the pits with you!"

The Orcs shuffled off to toil in the mines that Saruman had begun to secretly construct beneath the tree-dotted surface of Isengard. As for the Istar, angrily he began to turn the pages of a manuscript filled with spells, each heavily annotated with diagrams and marginalia. "I have yet to breed the fighters that I need if I am to destroy Sauron and take my place as the rightful ruler of Middle-earth," he muttered to himself. "But I shall not be thwarted. These first creatures are only essays in the craft of creation, and I shall persevere until I have an army at my command that shall be greater by far than any that Sauron may assemble upon the Dagorlad before the Gates of Mordor."

Saruman's glance strayed to a plinth upon which lay some object covered by a cloth. "If only I knew what He knows," he whispered. He crossed to the plinth. Hesitating a little, at last he laid hold of an end of the cloth and drew it aside, revealing a glossy globe, a dark crystal the size of a Halfling's skull.

And far away, a lidless eye ringed with flame turned its restless gaze toward Isengard.


	11. Chapter 11: Poise under Pressure

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 10 of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Ne'ith5, Joee1, jellebie, ziggy3, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 11: Poise under Pressure**

The footfalls were soft, but not so light that they escaped the notice of Legolas. Quickly he slipped behind a tree. He waited until the one who followed him had passed by his hiding place before leaping into the open. His tracker spun about, hand on knife, then froze.

"What are you doing outside at this time of night, Estel?" Legolas demanded, trying to sound stern.

"What are _you_ doing outside?" Estel shot back.

Legolas hesitated. Estel grinned.

"You are going to see Glorfindel's niece, aren't you? He'll skin you when he finds out!"

"He isn't going to find out," Legolas said darkly, trying to look even sterner.

Estel's grin grew wider. "No, he isn't—because I will be on patrol with you and the twins!"

Legolas scowled, but Estel was not daunted. He went from grinning to smirking. Legolas tried another tack.

"Estel, if you will return to the Hall and say nothing, next time you are assigned skivvy duty, I shall do your chores."

"I don't mind skivvy duty," Estel said cheerfully.

"A week's worth of skivvy duty, then."

"I don't mind skivvy duty," Estel repeated. "And you needn't offer a fortnight or a month," the youth added. "The answer would be the same."

Legolas had to concede that Estel held the upper hand. He shrugged, the scowl vanishing. He knew that there was no use in bemoaning the unavoidable. "Very well, Estel. I shall ask Elrond to allow you to accompany Elrohir, Elladan, and me on our next patrol."

"Thank you, Legolas. I shall cover for you. And someday, when I have an assignation, you shall do the same for me."

"That is not very likely," Legolas teased. "Truly, Estel, what maiden would welcome the attentions of a scruffy youth such as yourself?"

"I shall woo and win the loveliest maiden in all of Middle-earth," Estel said airily.

"Of which race?" retorted Legolas. "Orc, Troll, or Dwarf?"

Estel merely laughed, and the two parted amiably, each going his separate way, Estel back to the Hall and Legolas to his rendezvous with Glorfindel's niece.

Before dawn the next morning Legolas returned to the Hall in an excellent frame of mind, reentering that building the same way he had exited it, through a window.

"Did you sleep well, Legolas?" Estel asked when they encountered one another at breakfast. The young human put on an innocent expression.

"I passed the night excellent well," Legolas replied cheerfully.

Estel pretended surprise. "You look a little worn. Are you sure you passed the night well?"

"Very, very well," Legolas assured him, grinning. Estel grinned back. Legolas turned to Elrond, their foster-father.

"Ada, the twins, and I are riding out tomorrow to scout the border of Dunland. Estel is desirous of joining us. Glorfindel said yesterday that Estel has been acquitting himself with great credit on the practice fields. May not his wish therefore be granted?

Elrond turned to Glorfindel. "What say you, my friend? Ought Estel to join the patrol?"

Glorfindel was in fact very impressed with Estel's progress, but the balrog-slayer was not in the habit of showering his pupils with praise. "He has done well in his sword exercises," the Elf lord said slowly, "and in his horsemanship. I would wish," he added sternly, "that he would spend more time on his archery."

"We will make him responsible for hunting on this expedition," Legolas said quickly. As reluctant as he had been to include Estel in the expedition, as soon as he had agreed to advocate for the youth, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the task. Estel looked at him gratefully, and suddenly Legolas was all the more eager that the youth should accompany them. "Ada," he continued, "you must own that a true test of archery will take place in the field."

Amused, Elrond quirked his eyebrows. He could remember how dismayed Legolas had been when Estel, then a smelly, grubby urchin, had arrived at Rivendell and proceeded to follow Legolas everywhere. Legolas had been Anomen then, but under that name he had been just as fastidious as he was now. 'I wonder how Estel has managed to get Legolas to take his part," the elf-lord wondered. 'I wouldn't put it past the lad to have caught Legolas in some mischief and to have turned that fact to account'. Aloud he once again addressed Glorfindel. "Do you think Estel would benefit if he could practice his archery whilst on patrol?"

Legolas had spoken the truth, and Glorfindel knew it. However, as the balrog-slayer, it behooved him to not defer too openly to the younger Elf. "The lad may as well go," Glorfindel said grudgingly. "My niece has been recalled to Lothlórien, and I mean to escort her, so it suits me that in my absence he should accompany his brothers on patrol."

Legolas looked distressed at hearing that Glorfindel's niece would be departing. At the sight of his dismayed expression, Glorfindel allowed his façade to slip and grinned momentarily. Legolas realized at once that he was very much mistaken if he thought the balrog-slayer had been unaware of his nightly excursions. The young Elf first paled but then blushed to the tips of his pointed ears. Glorfindel's grin widened, and then he winked at the discomfited Elf before turning to address Estel. "I expect you to give a good account of yourself," he warned the young human. "Do not distract your brothers from their mission."

It was to Estel's credit that his face betrayed no emotion, for he was taken aback by Glorfindel's words. His father had been slain by Orcs, and although Estel had the insouciance of youth, he took seriously the need to patrol the borders against the enemies of the Free Folk of Middle-earth. In spite of his lighthearted manner in addressing Legolas, the young human desired to accompany his brothers not for amusement but because he was eager to take his place amongst the warriors.

Sensing his foster-son's emotions, Elrond spoke up. "I am sure that Estel will bring credit to himself and to his brothers. In all things that matter, he is serious enough."

Glorfindel did not truly doubt Estel's steadfastness, and when no one was looking, the balrog-slayer sent a wink that was brother to the one he had bestowed upon Legolas. In his relief, Estel let his mask slip and broke into a grin. Surreptitiously observing the exchange, Elrond had to hide his own grin. 'It is no wonder Mithrandir and Glorfindel get along so well', Elrond mused. 'Both pretend to be irascible, but both are as tender as kittens to those whom they love'.

Perhaps 'tender as kittens' was a bit of an overstatement, but it was true that the behavior of the wizard and the balrog-slayer was often not in keeping with the fierce façades that they presented to those outside their domestic circle; however, neither was desirous of giving the lie to the tales told about them. Both had avoided many battles on the strength of their reputations alone, their opponents preferring to turn tail and scuttle away rather than face the wrath of either.

The conversation having concluded to everyone's satisfaction, Legolas and Estel, in company with Elladan and Elrohir, went to the armory to sharpen their swords.

"In the south it has been very quiet for many months," Elrohir observed as he sighted along his blade. "Estel, if you expect adventure, you are likely to be disappointed."

"Glorfindel says to be mindful of the lull before the storm," Elladan reminded his older brother.

"And Ada says that the past is _not_ always prologue to the present," Legolas chimed in. "A forest empty of foes one day may be full of them the next."

"But you must concede it is far more common that a forest empty of foes one day is empty of them the next," replied Elrohir.

"True," said Legolas, "but we never know which will be the case, and it is better to act as if the former will be true rather than the latter. No harm will befall you if you enter a forest prepared to do battle with foes who are not there; great harm may befall you if you enter unprepared and an enemy is indeed present."

Elrohir could not gainsay this point. His sword sharpened, he turned to examining his arrows. He set aside two whose shafts were warped and set about making replacements. Estel, meanwhile, was making vigorous use of the grindstone that Elrohir had relinquished.

"If you sharpen your sword any further, brother, it will be as thin as a blade of grass!" Legolas called to young human.

"Pity Estel does not take as good a care of his appearance as of his sword," Elladan added, grinning.

"Yes, for he takes most excellent care of his sword," Elrohir chimed in. "He never removes it from its scabbard!"

Estel looked bewildered. He practiced with his sword every day. How could Elrohir say he never removed it from its scabbard? "Oh," he said finally, blushing. Then he rallied. "You should not be one to talk, Elrohir, for you sheathe your sword much too often!"

The Elves burst into laughter. "Well parried, Estel," Elrohir acknowledged.

Their tasks complete, the Elves and the human returned to the Hall, there to pack their saddlebags. This task did not take long, for they traveled light. Each packed an extra blanket, an extra pair of boots, and a spare set of tunic and leggings. The weather was cold, and if they became wet it would be necessary to have extra coverings and dry clothes. (Even a grown Elf will feel the cold if he becomes drenched in wintertime.) Had it been summer, they might have dispensed with the extra coverings and garments in favor of a larger stock of food. As they carried their bows, however, they had no fear that they would starve. And as Elrohir declared, fresh meat was preferable to dried. Of course, hunting and dressing carcasses was time-consuming. Still, although Legolas had warned that they might confront the unexpected, they all felt certain that they would have sufficient leisure time on this expedition to prepare several tasty meals.

At dawn the next morning, the four of them rode out from Rivendell. The weather was cold, but the skies were clear, and they took turns singing merry songs. They were far from the border of Dunland, in an area well-patrolled, and even Legolas conceded that it was too soon to be wary.

"A maiden in Bree / With her favors was free," sang Elladan.

"When she bedded this Elf / It was her twelfth," warbled Elrohir. This was a ditty frowned upon by the Elders in Imladris (although Elrohir swore that he had overheard Glorfindel humming the tune one evening as he strolled in the garden).

"Yet in the morn / That Elf was worn," Legolas chimed in.

"She had a strength / That matched his length," Estel croaked. His fellows burst into laughter., Estel's voice was still unreliable. It ranged from high-pitched squeaks to guttural rumbles. Estel joined in the laughter. "In the end, my voice shall be manlier than yours," he said cheerfully.

"As you are a Man, that is of course true," Legolas agreed.

"Does it never bother you, Legolas, that Men think Elves woman-like in some respects?" Estel asked.

Legolas shrugged. "Those features that mark Men as manly I think troublesome. Soon you will have to trim a beard or scrape your face clean of stubble, but I shall never have to bother myself with hair sprouting upon my face. Only Dwarves are hairier than Men!"

"The Men in Breeland say that Elves wear their hair like woman and that they have voices to match," Estel retorted, smiling.

"Men themselves vary in the length of their hair. Most wear it cut short, but some wear it nearly as long as Elves," Elladan pointed out. "It is custom only."

Elrohir joined the debate. "Mithrandir says there is a story among some Men about a mighty hero who lost his strength when his hair was cut. In his weakened state, he was blinded by his enemies."

"But Elves do not claim to derive their strength from the length of their hair," Estel observed. "If the length of hair is customary, as Elladan says, why do Elves almost invariably wear it long while amongst Men only some tribes do?"

"Perhaps it never occurred to our ancestors that the male Elves ought to cut their hair," Elladan mused. "Men make much of the distinction between males and females, and their dress and clothes accordingly differ greatly. Elves are not so concerned with this distinction. It does not trouble them if male and female alike wear their hair long."

"Why would it matter to Men but not to Elves," Estel wondered.

"Perhaps because Men put much more stock in strength than Elves do," Elrohir suggested. "You must own that humans honor Men who are disproportionately strong. Such folk are often elevated to positions of authority, whereas among Elves it is the wise who are so honored. Now, as women are rarely as strong as Men—not in musculature, anyway—Men as a class are the more highly honored. Therefore, Men will stress the features that distinguish them from women, such as hair upon the face and deep voices."

"I hear that in some settlements it may go ill with any youth who continues hairless and fails to develop a deep voice," Elladan remarked.

"Aye, I have heard that as well," Legolas agreed. "Such unfortunates may be mocked and abused or even driven from their villages."

"I have heard worse," Estel said slowly. "Halbarad told me that one day he came upon a badly beaten youth who had been tied to a fence in freezing weather. He untied the youth and carried him to a nearby village. There he learned that the young Man had been set upon because he was not sufficiently manly and did not evince any interest in maidens."

"What happened to him?" Elladan asked.

"He had been left to die," Estel said softly, "and in spite of Halbarad's intervention, he perished."

The four rode on in silence for some time. They all knew Elves who had no interest in maidens, and each was as honored as any of the other residents of Imladris. They could not imagine any of them being beaten and left to die. Estel felt ashamed. This was yet another sign of the weakness of his kinsmen. Most would willingly go to war to seize their neighbors' lands. Many believed in blood sacrifice. Some beat children. And one, seduced by avarice, had grasped a Ring of Power, an evil object that should have been destroyed. For his sin, this Man had died, but his death had not set right the wrong he had committed, for Sauron, the ultimate master of the Ring, lived on, as would not have happened had the Ring been destroyed.

Estel's shoulders slumped. That Man had been Isildur, his forefather. Disconsolate, the youth wondered whether he could escape the taint of his ancestry.

"You are not those Men, Estel," Legolas said kindly, for he perceived the thoughts of his foster-brother.

"But are not most Men evil?" Estel asked.

"Some are evil. Some Elves are evil, too, as our father Elrond knows all too well, for he survived the sack of Sirion. But some is not all. Look you: have you never wondered why Mithrandir goes about in the guise of a Man?"

"I am sure it is because he must address Men and they will listen to him more readily if he appears in the guise of one of them. Unlike Elves," Estel added bitterly, "who will welcome those of other races into their councils."

"Yes, I am sure that that is in part the reason. But I also think it is in token of the fact that Men can be virtuous. After all, why would the Valar have even bothered sending Mithrandir to Men if they did not perceive Men worth saving?"

This was an encouraging thought. Unconsciously, Estel straightened his shoulders as he rode, pondering the notion. Legolas was glad for him. He knew that Men believed that the sins of the fathers would be visited upon the sons, but like most Elves, Legolas did not hold to that notion; nor did he wish that Estel should. 'Each one, Man or Elf, may choose anew', the Elf thought to himself. 'That is why Mithrandir has come to Middle-earth: because there _are_ choices to be made and so that he may guide folk in making the right ones'.

After several days riding, Legolas and his companions came to the end of the region regularly scouted by the Elves of Imladris. Accordingly, they grew more vigilant, riding more slowly and stopping frequently to examine such tracks as they encountered. From time to time they came upon the deserted camps of Dunlending hunting parties. Unlike the Dúnedain, who carefully hid all traces of their bivouacs, the Dunlendings merely kicked dirt over their fires and moved on.

"These marks were not left by Dunlendings," Legolas announced one day as they stood in the middle of an abandoned camp. He bent and picked up a broken belt buckle. "This is finer than anything their smiths are capable of forging."

"Perhaps they traded for it," Estel suggested.

Legolas shook his head. "They are poor folk. What could they offer in trade for a buckle such as this? See: it is brass inlaid with silver."

"Perhaps they stole it, then," Estel said.

"It is indeed likelier that a Dunlending would have stolen rather than traded for such a buckle," Legolas agreed. "But neither is the case here. No Dunlending would discard a broken buckle—especially one such as this! The Dunlendings reuse every scrap of metal."

Legolas and his companions carefully examined the camp. At its edge, Elrohir found a discarded pair of boots. The sole of one was worn through, but the other boot was sound.

"Now it is certain that they are not Dunlendings," Elrohir said. "At the very least, a Man of Dunland would have kept the good boot and fashioned a mate for it. Even likelier, he would have kept both boots and resoled the damaged one."

Legolas took one of the boots and studied it. "This boot is of the style worn by Southrons," he said soberly.

Judging from the amount of charred wood in the abandoned fire pit, the Southrons must have stayed several days at the camp.

"If they were traders," Elladan said, "they would have camped only one night and then gone on their way the next morning."

"True," agreed Legolas. "As they lingered, they were more likely scouts who made this their base and went out each day in order to spy out the land."

"Shall we track them?" Estel asked.

Elrohir shook his head. "The vegetation is much trampled. I deem their party to be larger than ours. We may be too few in number to risk an encounter. However, it is enough to know that these Men have visited this place. Tomorrow we should return to Rivendell and report on this matter to Glorfindel and Ada, who will no doubt order that the guard on our borders be redoubled and that scouts be sent out more often."

The others agreed with Elrohir's counsel, although Legolas suggested that they should at least determine the directions in which the Men had scouted.

"Elladan, Elrohir, and I will split up and briefly follow three of the trails," he told Estel. "Meanwhile, you can hunt up something for our dinner."

As Legolas had promised Glorfindel, the human had been keeping the expedition in meat. Now the young Man nodded and strode from the camp, his bow in hand. Behind him, the Elves split up, each following a different trail out of the camp.

Legolas's path was a short one. It led to a nearby Dunlending village. The trail led around the settlement but did not enter it. 'That is good', the Elf thought to himself. 'If they had entered the village, that might bespeak an alliance between the two peoples. Better that each should remain wary of the other'.

Legolas returned to the camp. There he found a brace of squirrels lying beside the fire pit. Estel's pack sat nearby. It was open, and Legolas could see that the camp kettle was gone. 'Whilst Estel is fetching water', Legolas said to himself, 'I shall kindle the fire'. He put aside his bow and collected an armful of branches. Then he knelt and took out his fire kit. As he kindled a small blaze, he heard approaching footsteps that were unmistakably those of a Man. "You have done well, Estel," he called without looking up.

"Have I indeed, Master Elf?" came the sardonic reply at his back. Legolas would have leaped up, but the hand on his shoulder and the knife at his throat prevented him. "Put your hands behind you," the Southron ordered. Legolas thought it prudent to obey, and the spy quickly knotted a rope around his wrists and then yanked Legolas to his feet. "We have made use of this camp in the past," the Man said, "but I see these environs are no longer safe. Still, you are a valuable enough prisoner to make up for the loss of our camp."

The Man pushed Legolas in the direction of the forest, but they had hardly taken two steps before Estel emerged from cover, an arrow nocked on the string of his drawn bow. The Southron seized Legolas by the hair and dug the point of his blade into the side of the Elf's throat.

"Stand aside," he commanded. "Stand aside or I will kill your comrade."

Estel's only answer was to raise the bow and aim it at Southron's head—what he could see of it, anyway, for the Southron was shielded by Legolas's body. The Man laughed mockingly.

"You dare not risk such a shot," he sneered. "Not even a Man full grown would risk it."

Estel hesitated and then lowered his bow. The Man chortled. "Now stand aside," he again demanded, lowering his blade slightly.

Even Legolas's elven eyes could scarcely track Estel's movements as the youth suddenly raised his bow anew and released his arrow. But the Elf felt the fletching of Estel's arrow brush his cheek as it sped by. The Southron let out a gasp and then the knife fell from his hand as his knees buckled and he collapsed dead at Legolas's feet. Legolas locked eyes with Estel. "Le hannon," the Elf said simply. Estel looked a little pale, and he simply nodded in reply.

By the time Elladan and Elrohir returned to the camp, Estel and Legolas had heaped brushwood over the body of the Southron. Solemnly, the scouts stood by as the body was consumed. Then they removed to another campsite. By tacit agreement, Estel was not expected to dress and cook the squirrels. Elrohir took on that task, and Elladan did the washing up.

A week later, Legolas and his foster-brothers rode into Rivendell. Leaving their horses to the care of the ostlers, they repaired to the bathing rooms, where even Estel was glad to luxuriate for a time in a tub filled with steaming water. Indeed, he stayed so long in the bath that Legolas began to wonder whether the young Man were intent on scrubbing off far more than the grime of a three weeks' journey.

When Estel at length emerged from the bath, he joined his brothers in the Dining Hall, where Elrond and Glorfindel greeted him, each in his own fashion. Elrond smiled and said that he was glad to see his youngest son; Glorfindel, himself lately returned from Lothlórien, harrumphed that tomorrow Estel had better begin making up for lost time on the training field. "Did Estel get in any archery practice whilst gadding about?" the balrog-slayer demanded of Legolas. The young Elf smiled. "Indeed, he practiced his shooting under the most trying conditions and in doing so proved himself to be a formidable archer."

Glorfindel snorted. "A formidable archer! One must bring down a foe at great peril to be called a formidable archer." Suddenly Glorfindel caught sight of Estel's face. It was a study in contrasts, for upon it could be seen pride and grief, confusion and clarity. "Well, I see I should wait to hear the story before I pass judgment," Glorfindel remarked, his tone suddenly kind.

Later that evening, after Legolas had had an opportunity to tell the tale, Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel gathered in Elrond's chamber.

"I am beginning to think that Mithrandir is correct," Glorfindel said thoughtfully. "It may be that Estel will indeed be the one to restore and reunite the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. On this expedition, he has truly demonstrated his quality in a way that bodes well for his ability to vanquish the foes of the descendants of Númenor."

"It will take more than a few well-placed arrows to bring down the Dark Lord," Erestor reminded the balrog-slayer.

"It is not Estel's skill as an archer of which I speak—impressive though that be," Glorfindel replied, "but rather his steadiness of purpose and poise under pressure. Lacking these, he should not have been able to take the shot—or he would have taken it, and it might have gone ill for Legolas."

"Glorfindel is right," said Elrond. "An archer may spend hours in practice and may hit the eye of the target with every shot, but should he lack those qualities of which Glorfindel speaks, he may miss his mark in an actual engagement. In battle, skill with a bow is necessary but not sufficient."

"And those qualities will be important in many endeavors, not just those involving archery," came a voice in the doorway.

"Mithrandir," smiled Elrond. "You have returned from the Shire."

"As I am here, that seems an unnecessary observation."

"Would you like some wine?"

"And _that_, my friend, is an unnecessary question."

This declaration was met with another smile. Elrond poured Mithrandir a goblet of Dorwinion wine, several bottles of which Thranduil had sent via Legolas when the younger Elf returned from an extended stay with his Mirkwood father. The wizard, meanwhile, leaned his staff in the corner and tossed his distinctive pointed headgear onto a bench before taking the armed chair before the fire that Erestor obligingly vacated for him. The wizard stretched out his legs, resting them on the fender. Sighing in satisfaction, he accepted the goblet from Elrond. The Elves saw that, as always, the Istar's boots were worn, his leggings muddy, signs that he had walked a long distance and slept rough.

"You were speaking of Estel," Mithrandir said after taking a sip of the wine.

"Yes," replied Elrond. "Glorfindel is beginning to think that you are right about the lad's prospects."

"He has just now come to that conclusion? I should have thought he would have realized that fact long ago."

"I take the long view, Mithrandir," Glorfindel pointed out, "as has always been my custom since being vouchsafed the right to return to Middle-earth."

"Yes, I suppose coming back from fighting a balrog to the death would create just that perspective," Mithrandir conceded. "Much as I love wisdom, I hope I do not purchase it at that price!"

Standing in the doorway as Mithrandir spoke was Legolas. Having been told of Mithrandir's arrival by the Door Warden, the young Elf had hurried to Elrond's room in order to greet his friend and mentor. Listening to the Istar's words, he suddenly had a vision of an immense chamber filled with shadow and flame. He shuddered. Mithrandir looked up.

"Here's my lad!" he cried. "But why do you look so pale?" he added abruptly. "Elrond, he cannot be ill!"

Elrond leaped to his feet. Taking Legolas by the elbow, he guided him to the armed chair, which Mithrandir had hastily relinquished. With Mithrandir hovering over him anxiously, Legolas drank a little watered wine. As his racing heart slowed, the young Elf flushed in embarrassment. "I do not know what came over me," he apologized. "I merely wanted to greet Mithrandir, who must now think me as excitable as an elfling."

"Well, well," said Mithrandir, whose own heart had momentarily raced. "There is something to be said for the enthusiasm of youth. But you must undertake not to give me such a fright in the future, and I shall promise you the same."

"Do not make pledges you cannot keep," Elrond said dryly. He put aside his own wine glass and arose. "It is late, my friends, and I wish to repair to my bed. Legolas, you repair to yours—and stay there for a change!"

"Half a minute, Elrond," Mithrandir said hastily. "In a week I set off for Lothlórien. Glorfindel, you lately returned from that place. How is the road?"

"We saw the tracks of many Orcs. None assailed us, but you should travel in company if at all possible. "

"Exactly! Elrond, as Estel seems to have acquitted himself well recently, might I borrow him?"

"Estel and I are well paired," Legolas said quickly. "We have each other's backs. So you ought to borrow both of us."

Elrond quirked his eyebrows and glanced at Glorfindel. The balrog-slayer gave an exaggerated sigh. It seems he might have saved himself the trouble of escorting his niece to Lothlórien. "_I_ won't object, Elrond," he declared. "Let those two scamps be Galadriel's problem for a change!" Hearing no objections from the weapon's master, Elrond gave his consent.

At dawn a week later, Mithrandir rode out of Rivendell on a horse loaned him by Elrond. Behind him, Legolas and Estel cantered side by side. The two young friends were congratulating themselves on their good fortune. It remained to be seen, however, whether they would still consider themselves fortunate by the end of a fortnight.

**To be continued.**


	12. Chapter 12: A Blood Red Stain

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 11 of "Elf Interludes":**_** leralonde, Elfinabottle, jellebie, and CAH**_**. Also thanks to **_**Tavaril Lasgalen**_**, who weighed in with a review of Episode 10. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 12: A Blood-Red Stain**

"I don't see why we must first journey to Isengard," Legolas muttered to Estel.

"Because," the young Man explained patiently for the fifth time, "the blizzard has blocked all the passes over the Misty Mountains. Mithrandir has therefore decided that we shall journey around the southernmost tip of the chain."

"I know why we must travel south," Legolas sighed. "But I do not understand why we are visiting Isengard."

"I am sure you do," Estel retorted, "even if you pretend not to. We will be within a few days' ride of Isengard. Since we shall be so close to that place, Mithrandir has declared that we shall briefly turn aside in order to visit the head of his order."

Legolas grimaced. Estel was right. He knew why Mithrandir had decreed that they should pay a call upon Saruman. This did not, however, make it easier to accept Mithrandir's decision. Would he ever, he wondered, be able to persuade the wizard that Saruman was not to be trusted? It was a fact that the young Elf had been unable to find anyone who could corroborate his suspicions about Saruman, so that, although Legolas was certain that the Istar had tried to kill him on several occasions, he had no way of proving that this was the case. True, Galadriel shared his suspicions, but even the Lady of Light could offer no evidence of evil-doing on the part of the Lord of Isengard. Galadriel's Mirror showed much, but each scene was equivocal and capable of being interpreted differently by different viewers.

"Cheer up, Legolas," Estel interrupted the young Elf's morose thoughts. "We will only stay a few days."

Legolas thought that one day would be one too many, but he did not have a chance to give voice to this thought. Mithrandir, who was riding ahead of them, had twisted around in his saddle and was gesturing for them to hurry up. Legolas and Estel urged their horses into a canter and drew abreast of the wizard, who had checked his horse by the bank of one of the many tributaries of the Isen. "The water of this ford is much lower than I expected," the wizard said, smiling. "Given that it has been sunny the past several days, I was sure that snow melt from the mountains would have swollen the Isen and all its branches. But, see, the water will scarcely reach to our horses' hocks."

It was true that the tributary was low in its banks, surprisingly so because, as Mithrandir had pointed out, there had been a break in the weather and the other water courses that they had crossed had been high, their currents swift. Legolas suddenly felt uneasy, and he held his horse back. Mithrandir, however, spurred his steed and began to cross the ford. The wizard reached the midway point, looked back and gestured impatiently. "Wait until I signal before you enter the water," Legolas said to Estel. The young Man looked puzzled, but he shrugged and held back his horse.

Legolas reached the midway point just as Mithrandir's horse climbed out upon the opposite bank. The young Elf turned in his saddle to gesture to Estel, but before he could do so, he sensed a low rumble coming from upstream. "Estel, stay out of the water," he shouted. "Noro lim," he cried to his horse, spurring back toward the bank. But before he could reach it, an immense wave of water surged around a bend in the river. As a horrified Estel watched, the wave crashed into Legolas' horse, knocking the steed from his feet and throwing the Elf into the water. At the sound of the roaring water, Mithrandir had checked his horse and turned in the saddle, but before he could raise his staff and attempt to calm the waters the wave had rolled on, carrying both horse and Elf beyond the sight of Man and wizard.

When the wave had passed, the river was as placid as formerly. Mithrandir spurred his horse into the water and returned to the other side. "Legolas is an excellent swimmer," the wizard assured Estel, who for a moment sat upon his horse too shocked to do anything. "We have only to follow in his path a short distance and I am sure we will find him where he has swum ashore." The two headed downstream, urging their horses to go as swiftly as possible. When they had passed from view, a cloaked and hooded figure emerged from behind a tree on the far side of the river. "Hah!" the figure chortled. "That will be the end of that wretched Elf. The spell that I have laid upon the water will drag him along until his body has been dashed against the boulders and the breath driven from his lungs."

Saruman pushed the hood from his head. "Pity I could not have done away with the Grey Fool as well," he scowled. "Yet now is not the time. He knows something that he will not tell me—some secret pertaining to that rustic place where he sojourns amongst pig farmers and suchlike. Perhaps it is something trivial, which would be in keeping with his gifts, which are likewise trivial. Yet I would have no secrets kept from me—I, the head of the Order!"

Well pleased at having at last destroyed the young Elf who, as an elfling, had first thwarted him, the Lord of Isengard returned to the tower of Orthanc, there to consider how best to strengthen his hold on Fangorn and its environs. Perhaps, he told himself, growing ever more confident, perhaps he could expand his sway to Rohan—and beyond.

Meanwhile, the Elf he so detested was fighting to keep his head above water. As Saruman had intended, the waters continued to rage, and the current in which Legolas was trapped did not slow even when the water course broadened as it entered a wide valley. But there was a flaw in Saruman's spell. He had instructed the water to buffet Legolas, but he had neglected to tell the river to target the Elf's horse as well. As Legolas struggled to stay afloat, he noticed that only the water in his vicinity was tumultuous. A few yards away, his horse swam parallel to him in calm water. The Elf battled toward his steed until at last, with one desperate lunge, he seized hold of the horse's tail. Shouting above the river's tumult, he ordered the stallion to swim for the shore. The river clawed at Legolas, trying to tear him away from the horse, but the current had lost the element of surprise, and the Elf fought back, holding on with all his might and kicking free of the tendrils of water that tried to wrap themselves around his legs. His horse was a strong one, a gift to Elrond's stable from the king of Rohan, and it swam steadily toward the shore. At last Legolas could feel the river bottom beneath his feet. Inexorably the water level dropped as the horse continued to pull the Elf toward the shore—chest level, then waist high, then knee high. At last Legolas waded in water only ankle deep. Now the Elf easily broke free of the filaments of water that still tried to coil themselves about his ankles. Finally he stood upon the bank. With one last spiteful splash, the water splattered him with cold drops and then turned and retreated.

The sun was setting, and Legolas began to shiver. With shaking fingers he undid the fastenings of his saddle bag and drew forth the tightly sealed and well-oiled leather pouch that contained the spare clothes that, as before, he carried. With relief he saw that the garments had stayed dry. Swiftly he garbed himself in the dry tunic and leggings and drew on the spare pair of boots. Next he quickly gathered some sticks and used his flint and steel to kindle a small blaze. Wrapping himself in the extra blanket that had likewise been in the oiled pouch, he sat next to the fire and awaited his friends.

Guided by his fire, Estel and Mithrandir found him a short while later. Legolas had emerged on the far side of the river, however, and for a while the travelers shouted back and forth, unsure whether Legolas ought to try to return to the far shore or whether the other two ought to cross over to him. "I do not want Estel to enter the river," Legolas shouted. "What if the rogue water should return?" At last it was agreed that, as Mithrandir had twice entered the water in safety, he would cross over to Legolas while Estel remained on the shore.

As Estel and Legolas watched anxiously, the wizard, keeping his staff at the ready, urged his horse into the water. Soon the horse was swimming, and there was no sign of a disturbance in the river. Mithrandir reached the bank in safety, and he began to minutely question Legolas about the behavior of the water. "Singular," the wizard muttered at length. "It is apparent that a spell has been placed upon the water. The charm left me unscathed and does not appear to target horses, except insofar as it had to sweep away your horse in order to get at _you_. Well, well, perhaps it is a spell aimed at Fair Folk and Fair Folk only. Singular!"

"If that is so, how am I to return to the far shore?" Legolas asked. "My horse saved me, but I should not want to risk him a second time."

"Where there is a spell, there is a counter spell," Mithrandir said briskly. He thought a few minutes. At last he spoke. "Losto, Duin," he intoned. "Sedho! Hodo! Nuitho i'ruith!" _Sleep, River. Be still! Lie still! Hold your wrath!_ The incantation at an end, Mithrandir gestured at the river. "It is perfectly safe, Legolas—and if it is not, I will try something else."

Legolas raised his eyebrows at the wizard's equivocal assurances, but he spread dirt over the fire, mounted his steed, and entered the water. Mithrandir rode at his side, staff at the ready this time. This precaution proved unnecessary, however. They reached the middle of the river with no sign of trouble—the water unrippled by anything other than the expected currents—and shortly thereafter they rejoined a relieved Estel. "All's well that ends well," proclaimed Mithrandir cheerfully. "Now on to Isengard!"

"We have lost time on account of this misadventure," Estel said quickly, "and Galadriel is expecting us. Unfortunate as it may be, perhaps we should pass up the opportunity to visit Isengard on this occasion. After all, you shall have other opportunities to visit Saruman. Indeed, perhaps another time you would be able to stay even longer than you had planned on this trip."

Mithrandir considered. "I suppose you are right, my lad. Yes, we shall forge on to Lothlórien." The wizard flicked his reins and broke into a canter. Behind him, Legolas shot Estel a grateful look. "Hannon le, mellon-nín. Be sure that I shall find a way to repay you!"

Estel grinned. "Shall I have to fall into a river first?" he teased.

"I did not fall into the river," Legolas shot back, although he likewise grinned. "I was dragged into it by a malignant force!"

"Well, if I am ever dragged into a river by a malignant force, I expect you to come to my aid."

"Certainly!"

Thus bantering, the two friends rode on. As they jested, the Lady Galadriel looked into her Mirror and smiled. Departing her Glade, she summoned a messenger. "Carry this missive to Isengard with all speed," she commanded the Elf.

A few days later Saruman broke the seal on the message and smiled with satisfaction at its contents. "I am invited to Lothlórien," he chortled. "It must be that the Lady Galadriel has at last recognized that my worth far exceeds that of the Grey Fool." It had always rankled the Istar of Isengard that the Lady of Lórien favored Mithrandir above the other Maiar that had been sent to Middle-earth.

A week later Saruman rode triumphantly across the border of Lothlórien, and he was led to the talan wherein dwelt the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. His spirits soared as he ascended the steps that wound around the bole of the mighty mallorn tree. Reaching the top, he strode forward confidently. The Lord and Lady arose to greet him. Mithrandir was present as well, but Saruman had expected that, for his spies had told him that the lesser wizard had journeyed on to Lothlórien—the same spies that had alerted him that Legolas was within his reach. There was a human, too, but Saruman paid him no mind. Humans were lesser beings, of no value save as servants.

"You have arrived at a fortunate moment," Lady Galadriel said, "for we were just about to dine. But we are missing a guest," she continued, turning to her spouse. "He is testing his archery skills against Haldir and his brothers, I believe."

"Let him be sent for," Celeborn said. An Elf swiftly descended from the talan and went in search of the missing guest. Meanwhile, the Lady Galadriel offered Saruman a cup of wine. Inclining his head, Saruman accepted the cup and sipped the excellent beverage, reveling in being waited upon by the Lady of Lórien. He was well into his second cup when suddenly he gagged and spluttered.

"My Lord Saruman," Galadriel said, "your robe."

Saruman looked down. His white robe was stained with red. In the light filtering through the leaves of the mallorn tree, the splotch looked like newly spilled blood.

"'Twould be a pity if the stain were permanent," Galadriel said softly.

His hand shaking a little, Saruman put aside the cup. All arose to greet the missing guest, who had stepped onto the talan at the very moment at which Saruman had spilled his wine.

"Mae govannen, Legolas," said the Lady Galadriel. She looked expectantly at Saruman.

"Mae govannen," Saruman said stiffly. Suddenly he had an uncomfortable feeling that the Lady of Lothlórien might have summoned him only to see him discomfited. What did she know? he wondered. Perhaps more importantly, what could she _prove_?

"Well, well," said Mithrandir jovially. "It seems that I did right in journeying on to Lothlórien. I wanted to see you, Saruman, and now it seems I shall."

This observation put Saruman in an even fouler mood. It suited him that the Grey Fool should journey to pay his respects to him, but it was insufferable that he should travel for Mithrandir's convenience!

Later that evening Celeborn and Galadriel talked quietly together after their guests were abed.

"You still have no proof," Celeborn said.

"Did you not see how he reacted when Legolas stepped onto the talan?"

"A spilled cup of wine—what proof is that?"

"The river that attempted Legolas's life?"

"Not proof," Celeborn repeated. "The river could have been blocked by a dam of trees and rocks that gave way whilst Legolas was crossing it."

"The fact that Legolas was caught in a current and his horse was not?"

"A peculiarity of the water flow caused by the unevenness of the river bottom. Galadriel, _I_ trust you in this matter, but you will not convince the Council. Indeed, if you make such accusations, the Council shall be riven apart. You must wait until you have unequivocal evidence."

"Wait. Always we must wait. I hope we do not wait until all hope is lost."

"For the moment," Celeborn assured her, "hope is safe. For Estel sleeps by the side of one who protects him always."

Galadriel walked to the edge of the talan. "Oh, I think not, my love. Hope is afoot—and so is the scamp who is his guarantor."

"Very well," Celeborn retorted. "Hope is safe. For Estel carouses by the side of the one who protects him always."

"You mean the one who will probably see that he drinks too much tonight," Galadriel replied with a smile.

"It is necessary that one learn to hold one's one at board," Celeborn smiled back. "Remember that Estel must go amongst Men, and Men indulge in drinking games."

"In that case, both Estel and Legolas will be well prepared to go amongst Men," Galadriel laughed.

With that, Lord and Lady retired to rest. But there was one in Lothlórien who neither slept nor indulged in wine and companionship. All the long night, Saruman lay awake. What did she know? he fretted. What could she _prove_? The following morning he made his excuses and fled back to Isengard, there to redouble his efforts to forge such tools and breed such servants as would allow him to subdue Fangorn, Rohan, and—dare he attempt it—Gondor and Mordor itself.

And Galadriel—Galadriel waited.


	13. Chapter 13: Compassion

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 12 of **_**Elf Interludes**_**:**_** Joee1, CameoCorbin, leralonde, Dragonsofliberty, Ne'ith5, ziggy3, Tavaril Lasgalen, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature.**

**In a recent review, **_**Leralonde**_** wondered what must have been going on in Saruman's mind when Legolas showed up at Isengard in company with Gandalf and the others. This episode of **_**Elf Interludes**_** attempts to answer that question.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 13: Compassion**

"It is Gandalf Greyhame," Gríma Wormtongue said, peering cautiously through one of the narrow apertures cut into the walls of Orthanc. "Théoden rides with him, and some others of the Men of Rohan."

"Peasants', Saruman said disdainfully. "It is true that the untamable tree creatures tore down the walls of Isengard, but these mortals I can master."

"But Gandalf Stormcrow," Gríma said worriedly.

Saruman waved his hands dismissively. "As for the Grey Fool, once I daunt his allies, what can he do to me? I shall abide here patiently, wisely, until the tree creatures grow as somnolent as formerly. Then I will cause the forest to be destroyed by fire and axe so that never again will the wood monsters be able to creep up to my walls, which I shall rebuild even stronger than before."

Confident that he could deal with the small band of Men, and dismissing Gandalf as a lesser wizard, Saruman silently moved toward the window that opened onto the balcony above the door that was the sole entrance into the Tower of Orthanc. Remaining momentarily in the shadows, he studied the folk who had ascended to his door as well as the knot of folk who waited at the foot of the steps. "That stupid Worm," the wizard muttered under his breath. "Is he blind? The Grey Fool brings not only Théoden's brigands but folk of other races as well. I see a Dwarf and two of some other clan of little people. Well, never mind the Dwarf. Dwarves are few and rarely venture into other lands. I do not fear them!"

Next Saruman carefully studied the two in the company who were smaller even than the Nauga. 'They must be Periannath', thought the wizard. He gazed fixedly at the little folk, wondering whether it would be possible to wrest them away from the Grey Fool. "They look like stunted Elves," he murmured to himself, "but for all the shortness of their stature, they must be of some importance."

This line of thought was interrupted when Saruman caught sight of an actual Elf. "Legolas," the wizard spat. "He who has fled my hospitality in the past now dares to stand upon my doorstep. Insolent Elf brat! Well, when I have restored Orthanc, I shall have you as my guest once more. You shall be well entertained—yes, very well entertained indeed!"

Saruman chortled a little at the thought of how he might 'entertain' Legolas. Then he composed himself and softly stepped forward to the iron bars that guarded the balcony. "Well?" he said, assuming his most honeyed voice. "Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace at all by night or day?"

The wizard was gratified to see that he had startled his visitors, who had been gazing at the door below the balcony. Only Legolas seemed unsurprised. The Elf slowly raised his head and stared unblinkingly at the wizard. Saruman found the Elf's level gaze both galling and unnerving, and he forced himself to look away from the Elf as he considered how best to insinuate himself past the defenses of his foes.

'I will waste no words upon the Grey Fool', the wizard thought to himself. 'He will not be guided by my wisdom. Théoden will perchance be more malleable—or so he has proved in the past. I shall work on him, and once I regain his trust, his meinie will trot obediently after'.

Acting upon this plan, the wizard did not address Mithrandir directly, instead choosing to speak dismissively of him in the hearing of the others. "Gandalf I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here," the Istar proclaimed, trying to hold Théoden's eye as a snake holds the eye of a bird it designs to swallow. With Théoden's eyes fixed upon his face, the wizard addressed the King of Rohan with great deference. Théoden he recognized by his noble devices and his fair countenance. Théoden was the worthy son of Thengel thrice-renowned. Théoden was the mightiest king of the western lands. Théoden he would save from ill counsel and impending ruin.

After Saruman had concluded these lofty pronouncements, Théoden opened his mouth to reply, but then the king hesitated, closing his mouth, his expression impassive. A good sign, Saruman thought smugly. No doubt the Grey Fool had whipped up the horse-master's courage, but now the king's determination was faltering. His Men's courage likewise wavered. Saruman could see uncertainty in their faces, could hear doubt in the words that they muttered amongst themselves.

Saruman's self-congratulations were abruptly interrupted, however. The Dwarf erupted into speech, his voice loud for his size. "The words of this wizard stand on their heads," he growled. The Nauga hefted his axe, looking as if he would have liked to lay it against the neck of the Istar. "In the language of Orthanc help means ruin, and saving means slaying, that is plain," he proclaimed truculently.

'Stupid Dwarf', Saruman thought disdainfully. 'This must be Gimli son of Glóin, if the reports of my spies are to be believed. His words are of little moment, for his intellect is in keeping with his stature. With a few words I will mollify him'. Saruman turned to reply to the Nauga, but as he did so, he found himself locking eyes with Legolas, who stood beside the Dwarf. The wizard wrenched his eyes away from those of the Elf, but his composure momentarily slipped, and he spoke more harshly than he intended. "Peace!" he said angrily. "I do not speak to you yet, Gimli Glóin's son." As Saruman spoke, he thought he saw the corners of Legolas's mouth quirk, and quickly he strove to regain control of himself. 'I will not give that whelp the satisfaction of seeing me discomfited', the wizard vowed furiously. Assuming once more a measured tone, Saruman attempted to recover the appearance of magnanimity. Gimli was bold, the wizard avowed, and through no fault of his own he had been drawn in to a conflict not of his making.

Having striven to silence the Dwarf, Saruman returned his attention to Théoden, who had not yet replied to the wizard's sugared salutations. Yet it was not the king who spoke next but Éomer, his sister-son. Alarmed that the Rohirrim might lose in conclave what they had gained in battle, in his urgency the young warrior spoke out of turn. "Have we ridden forth to victory," he cried, "only to stand at last amazed by an old liar with honey on his forked tongue?"

'No doubt the Man whelp has been encouraged by the Elf brat', Saruman thought furiously. His mask once again slipping, he angrily rounded on the young Man. "If we speak of poisoned tongues what shall we say of yours, young serpent?" he hissed.

The angry murmurs of the Rohirrim at once told Saruman that he had revealed too much of himself, and he hastily strove to repair the damage. Softening his voice, he praised Éomer. The son of Éomund was brave, the Istar proclaimed, and his military prowess unmatched. The wizard merely urged him—gently, as a father would—to leave matters of policy to his elders, against the time when, older in years and riper in wisdom, he should ascend—deservedly—to the throne of Rohan. Then, having dispensed (he thought) with Éomer, Saruman again addressed Théoden. "The kings of the House of Eorl have fought many wars, and assailed many who defied them," the Istar reminded the king. "Yet with some they have afterwards made peace, none the worse for being politic," he continued. "Théoden King," the wizard urged, "shall we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Shall we not have peace, you and I?"

As Saruman waited for Théoden's answer, his eyes once more sought out the Elf whose continued defiance he found so infuriating. Again he found himself locking eyes with the Sinda. 'Does that Elf never blink?' the wizard thought irritably. What was the Sinda thinking, the Istar wondered. Was he exulting over the wizard's present circumstances?

Distracted by his thoughts, the Istar had to force himself to pay attention as Théoden began to answer Saruman's proffer of friendship. "We will have peace," Théoden said slowly, his voice low and hoarse. Saruman hid his triumphant smirk and once more allowed his eyes to stray toward Legolas. 'You will soon be bereft of allies, my young friend', the wizard crowed to himself. 'I have driven a wedge between Théoden and your master, and surely it will be no great task to detach others of his company. Your stubborn loyalty to the Grey Fool will be rewarded by a death that none shall mourn. And be sure that your demise shall be preceded by torment at the hands of my servants. I must be certain to include some of your former friends amongst them—that will make the scene all the more entertaining!'

This agreeable line of thought was suddenly broken when Théoden spoke anew. "We will have peace," the king repeated, his voice louder this time.

This time Saruman allowed his smirk to show, although he tried to disguise it as a benevolent smile.

"Yes, we will have peace," Théoden continued, his voice ringing, "when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We will have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows, we will have peace!"

Saruman was so dumbfounded by these unexpected words that for a moment his famous voice failed him. When he did speak, his malice was plain for all to see. "Gibbets and crows!" he hissed. "Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? The victory at Helms Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse-master. You are a lesser son of greater sires!"

As Saruman snarled these words, his voice high-pitched and hideous, he caught sight of Legolas, who was grinning now. Infuriatingly, the Sinda looked like the light-hearted elfling who had once gone about with Gandalf, all the while steadfastly rebuffing Saruman's advances. His intestines twisting, Saruman realized that with his outburst he had lost all hope of suborning Théoden and his Riders, and it maddened him that Legolas should have been a witness to his miscalculation—nay, that Legolas had in part been responsible for this miscalculation. For Saruman possessed enough self-awareness to realize that the Elf's steady gaze had thrown him off balance—as the Elf had no doubt intended.

'I will not give over my plan to deal with you later', Saruman thought furiously, 'but now I must salvage what I can. Can Mithrandir have sunk so low as to have entirely forgotten that he is an Istar—a Maia, even? If I can reawaken his pride in our Order, I may persuade him to abandon these lesser folk, these beings only a little higher than the animals that bear them'.

Putting this desperate plan into action, Saruman gestured dismissively at the Men of Rohan and turned his mesmeratic eyes upon his fellow wizard. "But you Gandalf!" he said sorrowfully. "For you at least I am grieved, feeling for your shame. How comes it that you can endure such company? For you have a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"

Legolas was still grinning. From his mentor the Elf had heard an account of the wizard's imprisonment atop Orthanc that was fuller even than the tale told at the Council of Elrond. The Sinda knew that Gandalf would never again be deceived by Saruman's blandishments.

"What have you to say that you did not say at our last meeting?" Gandalf said evenly, meeting Saruman's eyes but remaining unaffected by them. "Or, perhaps," Mithrandir added, "you have things to unsay."

Saruman put on a puzzled look, but now all folk, and not just Legolas, could see past his façade. 'He pretends to have been driven by concern for Middle-earth and for Gandalf himself', the Elf thought to himself, 'but he lies. It is long since Saruman has had a concern for anyone other than himself'.

Legolas listened unperturbed as Saruman tried to pretend that his mistreatment of his fellow wizard had arisen from impatience rather than from malice and greed. Unconcerned, he stood patiently as Saruman tried to appeal to Gandalf's pride. 'He thinks Gandalf's pride is of the same sort as his—compounded of arrogance and a disregard for the feelings and needs of others', the Elf said to himself. 'Saruman does not understand—is incapable of understanding—that Gandalf's pride is nothing but the desire to do only that which is just and good'.

Legolas grew a little bored as Saruman tried to persuade Gandalf that, together, the two wizards could order the affairs of Middle-earth to the benefit both of themselves and of Arda's less-worthy denizens. "Are we not both members of a high and ancient order, most excellent in Middle-earth?" the Istar proclaimed loftily. "Our friendship would profit us both alike. Much we could still accomplish together, to heal the disorders of the world."

Legolas yawned. Suddenly he realized how little sleep he had had since the breaking of the Fellowship at Parth Galen. Gimli jostled his elbow. "If you are tired of his speechifying," the Nauga whispered, "you could stick an arrow in his gob."

Half-tempted to follow the Dwarf's advice, Legolas fingered his bow. Gandalf shot a warning look at the Elf. "He has tried to kill us both," the Sinda whispered. Gandalf scowled and shook his head. The Elf shrugged and exchanged a rueful glance with Gimli. The Dwarf grimaced. "I'm hungry," the Nauga muttered. He looked about. "Would serve that wizard right to be skewered on one of his own machines," he grumbled. Legolas followed Gimli's eyes and saw a gigantic spiked wheel that would surely have been an appropriate resting place for a wizard enamored of engines of war.

Above them, Saruman still addressed Gandalf. "I am willing to redress the past, and to receive you," he announced grandly. "Will you not consult with me? Will you not come up?"

"Not bloody likely," Gimli muttered. Many of the Rohirrim looked as if they feared that Gandalf would abandon them and ally himself anew with Saruman, but Legolas knew that the Nauga was right. 'Trust Gimli not to be fooled by fine words', Legolas thought proudly to himself, the Dwarf's plain dealings, which the Sinda had once dismissed as a sign of uncouthness, now a positive virtue in the eyes of the Elf.

When Saruman had finished speaking, Gandalf laughed mirthlessly, and Legolas could tell from the spasm that briefly convulsed Saruman's face that the once-powerful Lord of Isengard at last understood that he had no hope of crawling back into power. No one in the company—neither Elf nor Dwarf, Man nor Hobbit—would be wheedled into being trapped anew in the wizard's wiles. Suddenly Legolas recovered from his lassitude. 'Saruman's voice will not avail him in this case', the Elf said to himself. 'Will he now bring forth another weapon?'

Warily, Legolas looked all about him and then back up at Saruman. With one hand he gripped his bow; with the other, he reached into his quiver and loosened an arrow.

Above him, Saruman's face was livid and twisted with rage. Gandalf had offered him safe passage from Isengard, but Saruman was suspicious of the motives of his former ally. 'When he trapped Gandalf, he behaved abominably', Legolas thought to himself, 'and, lacking charity, he cannot imagine that another would be generous. He is trapped by his suspicious nature'.

Gandalf was sighing wearily. "The treacherous are ever distrustful," he observed, speaking more to himself than to Saruman. Yet in spite of the seeming futility of any attempt to bring Saruman to reason, Gandalf tried again. Saruman had alienated his neighbors and had attempted to betray Sauron. Orthanc was no longer a place a safety; nay, if Saruman remained therein, the tower would be no better than a trap where he could do naught but await retribution at the hands of the servants of the Dark Lord. Saruman had only to surrender the Key of Orthanc and his staff to be set at liberty—and even these would be returned if he mended his ways and proved worthy of them.

"_I_ wouldn't return them," Gimli grumbled. "Were I Gandalf, I would keep them."

"Gandalf neither wants nor needs the Key nor the staff," Legolas retorted. "He has got his own staff, superior by far than the unnatural one wielded by Saruman; and he would never want to be locked in an airless tower."

"Interesting way of putting it," Gimli said thoughtfully. "You make Saruman sound like a prisoner rather than a ruler."

"That is the point," Aragorn said dryly. "Saruman must come to see that, rather than ruling events, he is ruled by them. But be still now and listen!"

On the balcony above Saruman was pacing frenetically. "Return them!" he shrilled. "Return them! Yes, when you also have the Keys of Barad-dûr itself, I suppose; and the crowns of seven kings, and the rods of the Five Wizards, and have purchased yourself a pair of boots many sizes larger than those you wear now." In Saruman's fury, spittle gathered in the corners of his lips. He raged on, now spewing some of his fury upon Gandalf's companions, both human and Hobbit. "Leave behind these cut-throats and small rag-tag that dangle at your tail," he snarled. Suddenly, his anger again came to rest upon his peer. He raised his staff and pointed it at Gandalf, who stood calmly, making no effort to dodge as a ball of fire shot from the end and enveloped him. Below horses reared, and the members of the company cried out—all save Legolas, who drew an arrow but then stayed his hand when his elven eyes saw through the veil of magic to where Gandalf stood unharmed.

The ring of fire flared and then went out. In its wake Gandalf stood erect, seeming all the greater, as if the fire had purged him of all weakness. "Behold," he cried, "I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no colour now, and I cast you from the order and from the Council." He raised his hand. "Saruman," he said sternly, "your staff is broken."

Saruman cried out and flinched as his staff shattered into pieces in his shrinking hand. Then, like a blind Man, he groped his way from the balcony. As he staggered away, something was hurtled from above. The round shiny object careened off railing and stair, leaving splintered metal and stone in its wake, and came to rest in a pool of water.

Always afterward Aragorn maintained that this object was thrown by Gríma and that the Wormtongue could not decide whether he wanted to strike down Gandalf or Saruman. Gandalf agreed that Gríma had likely been the one to hurl the globe from the tower. The wizard was indifferent on the subject of the globe's target, but he was grimly amused that Saruman's henchman should have cast away something that was, he suspected (and as later proved to be case) exceedingly valuable. At the moment, however, he had no time to examine the object. He retrieved the globe from Pippin, who had fished it from the pool (and who, Legolas thought, seemed strangely reluctant to part with it) and then, after a brief conversation with Treebeard (exceedingly brief in the eyes of the Ent), Gandalf led the company away from Orthanc.

"Hannon le, Legolas," Gandalf said as they rode from Isengard.

"Why are you thanking me?" Legolas asked. "I did nothing save accompany you up the steps of Orthanc."

"Oh, do not play the innocent, you young scamp. You must know that your presence discomfited Saruman greatly. For years he has been able to congratulate himself on having concealed his animosity toward you, only to have you show up on his very doorstep amongst folk who harbor no illusions as to his wickedness. How bitter it must be to him that you have at long last gained a hearing for your words whilst no one will any longer give credence to _his_."

Legolas colored like an elfling caught in the cookie cupboard, and Gandalf chuckled. Riders looked about at the sound of his merry laughter, a noise to which they had grown unaccustomed in these dark days.

"Now speak the truth, lad," Gandalf demanded cheerily. "Were you not somewhat pleased at seeing Saruman receive his comeuppance?"

"Oh, _somewhat_," Legolas replied dryly. "But I hope I may be pardoned for that. After all, Saruman _did_ try to kill me on occasion. Four or five or six times—I disremember the number. Anyway, his punishment is hardly worthy of the word, for he remains in possession of the Tower of Orthanc."

Gandalf shook his head, suddenly serious again. "My lad, he is locked in with Gríma Wormtongue, and at the very least the two will gnaw each other with words. I think, though, that being imprisoned with such an ill-companion will only be the beginning of Saruman's torment. His sentence shall be a long and painful one, all the more bitter because he freely chose to serve it when he could have embraced forgiveness and redemption."

Legolas looked at the wizard in amazement. "No one could be as generous as you, Gandalf. You truly are sorry for the wretched creature who tried to murder both of us."

"You have hit the nail upon the head, Legolas," Gandalf replied. "You have called Saruman a 'wretched creature'. Yes, as wretched a creature as Gollum, and as pitiable. But in one respect you are wrong: there is someone far more generous than I."

Legolas shook his head disbelievingly. Gandalf smiled, but a little sadly. "I have lost much and will lose more," the wizard said gravely. "You will, too. But our sacrifices will be as trifles when compared to Frodo's."

Gandalf looked searchingly at Legolas. The Elf cast aside his light-heartedness and drew tight his cloak; he felt strangely cold even in the absence of a north wind. Gimli was dozing, his head bumping against the Elf's back, and with no let to his reflections, Legolas rode on under a westering sun. 'Saruman's futile attempts to do away with me are of no importance', the Sinda thought to himself, 'and my grievances are as nothing when compared to Frodo's suffering'. To both his surprise and relief, Legolas realized that he no longer harbored any grudges against his former tormenter, and he embraced Gandalf's wisdom: even a villain could be the object of compassion. And so he rode on, his friend Gimli asleep at his back, all the while feeling pity for the wizard of Isengard—who, had he known himself an object of the Elf's compassion, would have been galled all the more.


	14. Chapter 14: A Bedraggled Feather

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 13 of **_**Elf Interludes**_**:**_** Joee1, leralonde, Amiable Loner, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature. [I think I have answered all reviews received through the end of May. I have to double check to make certain that I have answered all reviews received in June and July.]**

**This story is a response to an email from CAH, who asked whether I could write a story in which Legolas encounters Gwaihir.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 14: A Bedraggled Feather**

Mithrandir glared at the river, as if it were somehow its fault that it had spilled over its banks. The torrent of water was an insurmountable barricade to a wizard on his way to the Shire. 'Odd', the wizard muttered to himself. 'There has been no rain to account for such a rapid rise in this water course'.

Standing by the side of the wizard, Legolas grinned. Elrond had given him permission to ride with Mithrandir to the ford at the Bruinen and then to return to Rivendell straightaway. The young Elf had not been looking forward to parting with 'his' wizard, and now it seemed that the reluctant farewells would not be necessary. "It will take days for this flood to subside," Legolas said cheerfully. Then he beckoned to their mounts, which grazed several yards behind them. "You may take mine as well as yours," Mithrandir called. Legolas turned back, puzzled. "Why should I take your horse as well as mine?" he asked. "Do you mean to walk back to Imladris?"

"I am not returning to Imladris."

"But, Mithrandir, you cannot cross the Bruinen when it is this high."

"Not on a horse, I can't."

"Not on foot, neither!"

"True," agreed Mithrandir calmly. "I can cross on neither foot nor horse."

"Then let us take our mounts and return to Imladris!"

Mithrandir shook his head. He drew a feather from the bag that dangled from his belt. Its shaft was bent and its barbs bedraggled, but it was recognizably an eagle plume. The wizard held it aloft and chanted in Sindarin. "Bauer, bauer. Gerin bauer. Rovail, rovail. Aníran rovail." _Need, need. I have need. Wings, wings. I desire wings_.

His incantation complete, Mithrandir returned the feather to his pouch and drew out a pipe in its stead. Settling himself upon a fallen tree, he packed the bowl and began to smoke. From time to time he withdrew the stem from his mouth in order to blow forth vaporous effigies of eagles, which he sent soaring around the head of the baffled young Elf. "Mithrandir," the Elf at last asked in exasperation. "Do you expect to grow wings? If not, what is reason for this performance?"

"Hasty, aren't you?" Mithrandir replied with equanimity. "As an Elf, you should be thinking on the order of millennia, yet you grow impatient after a few minutes have passed."

"So if you sit there for several centuries, you will grow wings?"

"I did not say that."

"Then what do you anticipate—for surely you sit as if you were expecting _something_."

In reply, Mithrandir pointed in the distance. The young Elf gazed where the wizard pointed and descried a speck that, as he watched, grew rapidly in size until he saw that it was a giant eagle. Soon Legolas felt the breeze from the bird's mighty wings as he descended, coming to perch before wizard and Elf.

"Mae govannen, Gwaihir," Mithrandir greeted the Wind-Lord.

Gwaihir dipped his beak in acknowledgement and then turned a bright eye upon Legolas.

"You look familiar. Are you that elfling whom I pulled from the Isen several decades ago?"

Legolas reddened a little and acknowledged that he was.

"You have grown considerably," observed the great bird. "You were hardly a mouthful then; now you might almost make a meal.

"Only _almost_?" Mithrandir said brightly.

"With the addition of a cony or two," Gwaihir replied.

Legolas shot Mithrandir an indignant look, but the wizard ignored him and continued to banter with the Wind-Lord.

"The lad has grown," the wizard said insouciantly, "but I have not."

Gwaihir made a show of eyeing Mithrandir up and down and side to side. "I'll grant you have grown no taller," he agreed, "but as to your breadth, it is hard to judge when you are garbed in that voluminous robe. But," he added, stretching his wings, "what is it to me whether you have grown or not?"

Legolas rolled his eyes as wizard and Wind-Lord continued their bantering. As a rule, the Elf eschewed eye-rolling, for he believed the gesture uncouth and therefore unworthy of anyone but a Dwarf. However, in this instance he felt aggrieved at being treated dismissively by both Mithrandir and Gwaihir.

"I suppose," the great eagle was saying, "that the best way to assay the matter would be to take you upon my back and fly you some distance. Then I shall be able to compare your weight against that on previous occasions."

"Your intelligence is as sharp as your beak," exclaimed Mithrandir, feigning surprise at the eagle's suggestion. "Now I think on it, your solution is an excellent one."

"It only remains to determine the distance and direction of the assay," Gwaihir replied.

"As to that," Mithrandir said, "it so happens that I was on the verge of traveling to the Shire, for I had hoped to take tea there with a Hobbit. If you would fly me to the Shire, it would settle the question and at the same time bring me to my destination, thus killing two birds with one stone. If you will pardon the expression," the wizard hastily added.

Gwaihir pretended not to have heard the unfortunate adage. "A Hobbit?" he said. "I fear your repast will be rather short."

"Only if I planned to dine on the Hobbit—which I do not. No, this is a most redoubtable Perian—also a hospitable one, as he will be hosting thirteen Dwarfs, and will do so creditably on very short notice."

"There's that word again," Gwaihir said dryly.

"A word that will no doubt apply to my journey," rejoined Mithrandir, "for I know you to be a swift flyer."

With that the wizard clambered atop the Wind-Lord, settling himself securing between the great wings. As he did so, he addressed Legolas. "Now then," he called brusquely, "You be a good lad and take my horse back to Rivendell. Ask Elrond to see to provender for thirteen Dwarfs and one Hobbit—the latter will eat as much as any Dwarf—for I reckon such a party will arrive at the Last Homely House by and by."

Gwaihir spread his wings and with surprising grace for a bird so large launched himself into the air. Balancing carefully on the back of the great eagle, Mithrandir did not notice that his bedraggled feather came free of his pouch and fluttered to Legolas's feet. The young Elf glared at the talisman and turned away, meaning to leave the feather where it had fallen. He was irritated at having been addressed like an errand boy and vexed at the notion that Imladris would soon be invaded by a pack of Dwarfs. The young Elf had only taken a few steps, however, when he relented. Retracing his steps, he bent down to retrieve the feather. Clearly it had some worth to Mithrandir, and Legolas could not bring himself to be so petty as to withhold it from the wizard. No matter how crotchety and cantankerous the Istar might be, he still commanded the young Elf's affection and respect.

It was growing late by now, and Legolas decided to camp by the river and then set out for Imladris in the morning. With the rush of the current in his ears, he fell into a deep sleep, well protected, he knew, from any enemy. For who, lacking the friendship of a Wind-Lord, could cross such a flood?

Legolas woke next morning to the sound of birdsong. For several minutes he lay contentedly listening to the dawn concert. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. The trilling of the birds should have been accompanied by the sound of rushing water. He looked toward the river. It was very nearly dry, its bed empty save for a small trickle of water.

Legolas stared bemused at the waterless watercourse. 'First a flood in the absence of rain, then a desert where there should be a river', he murmured to himself. He arose and contemplated the scene for a time. As he did so, it occurred to him that he could follow after Mithrandir. Elrond had told the young Elf to journey as far the Bruinen and then return to Imladris, but that was before Mithrandir had gone off without his horse. Would not the wizard be pleased if Legolas brought the steed to the Shire? Without a mount, either Mithrandir would have to trudge all the way back to Rivendell, or he would have to again rely upon the good offices of Gwaihir. But Legolas reminded himself that Mithrandir no longer had his feather, and even if he had still possessed it, the Elf suspected that the wizard would want to call upon the Wind-Lord only rarely. Gwaihir might condescend to bear the Istar upon occasion, but if the great eagle began to feel that he were being treated as a servant who could be summoned at will, he would resent the presumption and refuse his services at a time when they were most needful. No, Legolas decided, Mithrandir would not return perched atop the back of the Wind-Lord.

Hanging fire, Legolas looked back and forth between the river bed and the road to Imladris. He _had_ been told by both Elrond and Mithrandir to return to Rivendell. 'You _want_ a reason to follow after Mithrandir', he said to himself. 'But you are no longer the elfling whose naughtiness was indulged by loving elders whose reproofs were scarcely deserving of the word. Elrond has bidden me to return quickly to Imladris, and Mithrandir has asked me to carry a message to that very place. I should honor my mentors by obeying them'.

It also occurred to Legolas that Mithrandir would not really mind making the return journey on foot. The wizard had roamed far without benefit of horse. 'And if he really wishes to ride', Legolas concluded, 'he can always borrow a mount. He has a knack for borrowing horses. Why, that steed yonder he finagled from Figwit, who is probably still bewildered as to how he ended up loaning Mithrandir his favorite mare'.

Certain now that he should return to Rivendell, Legolas scraped soil over the remnants of his campfire and stowed his few possessions in his pack. Riding a leisurely pace, he set out for Rivendell, Mithrandir's horse ambling after.

The sun was nooning when the young Elf heard singing accompanied by the tinkling of the small bells that Elves are wont to attach to their horses when stealth is not required. Legolas drew up his horse as a party of his kinsfolk came into view through gaps in the trees. "Mae govannen," called their leader as he caught sight of Legolas.

"Greetings, Lindir," Legolas called back. "I see that you have taken a holiday from patrolling the southern border."

Lindir and his companions dismounted, and Legolas did likewise.

"We are making for the Bruinen," said Lindir. "We mean to fish and swim and collect mussels."

"You will be disappointed, I am afraid," Legolas replied, "for the river is nothing but a trickle."

The elflings in the party cried out in disappointment. "We passed a pond a little ways back," Lindir said quickly. "We could return to it. You young ones can swim and catch turtles whilst we older ones while away the hours amusing ourselves with songs and tales."

This pleased Lindir's companions. As for Legolas, he saw an opportunity to indulge his own desires. Lindir could carry Mithrandir's message to Elrond and report that Legolas had chosen to follow after the wizard. By sending a message, the young Elf would have shown respect to both Mithrandir and Elrond, and he trusted that the latter would perceive his errand to be a worthy one, even if the young Elf were motivated not only by Mithrandir's needs but by his own wishes.

This plan seemed good to Lindir, and Legolas happily remounted his horse. Crying farewell to the other Elves, he rode back toward the dry riverbed. Several hours later, he crossed it and entered the coolness of the riverine forest on its far side. In his contentment, he opened his mouth to sing, but before he could utter a note, he suddenly clapped his mouth shut. He heard something, but this time it was not the mingled melody of tinkling bells and dulcet elven voices. Swiftly he dismounted. Bidding the horses find cover, the young Elf quickly climbed a tree.

Looking down, he was horrified when a large party of Orcs passed beneath his perch. Erestor, his ancient tutor, had reluctantly taught Legolas the elements of Black Speech, and he recognized at once the words _Ilid_, _Albai_, and _Golug_. Each was a word for 'Elves'. Apparently Orcs from various tribes, each speaking a slightly different dialect, had banded together and, judging from the direction in which they swiftly marched, they planned a sortie against the Elves of Imladris.

Thinking of the party of Elves in their path, many of them young, Legolas felt sick. As soon as the Orcs had marched past, he dropped from the tree and urgently summoned his mare. "We must outrace the Orcs and warn Lindir!" he cried.

Leaping upon his horse, he galloped toward the river, arriving as the last of the Orcs set foot upon the opposite bank. Not caring whether he was seen—he meant to trust to the speed of his horse—Legolas broke cover and started down the bank.

No sooner had he done so, than he heard a roar and felt air and ground vibrate. His horse shied, and as Legolas soothed her, around the bend swept a mighty wall of water. Suddenly the river was flooded as high as it had been earlier, when Mithrandir sought to cross it, and Legolas's mare had to struggle to maintain her footing as horse and rider retreated to the bank.

On the other side, the Orcs looked back, hooting and pointing in derision at the stranded Elf. Then they faced forward and marched swiftly onward.

Legolas had not cried in centuries, but now his eyes filled with tears of fear and frustration. "My friends shall be slain," he cried. "The little ones—they shall be slain."

Trembling, he tried to calm himself so that he might think of a way to cross the river. Suddenly he remembered Mithrandir's feather. He pulled it from the pouch where he had stuffed it after grudgingly deciding to return it to the wizard. Holding it aloft, he saw that it was even more bedraggled than formerly, and he prayed that it had not lost any of its power on that account. "Bauer, bauer. Gerin bauer. Rovail, rovail. Aníran rovail," he cried, his voice shaking. _Need, need. I have need. Wings, wings. I desire wings_. "Bauer, bauer. Gerin bauer. Rovail, rovail. Aníran rovail," he repeated. Then he anxiously scanned the sky for any sign of a great eagle. To his relief, almost immediately he saw a distant speck that rapidly grew larger. It seemed that Gwaihir had returned swiftly from his errand to the Shire. Almost before the tears had dried upon Legolas's cheeks, the Wind-Lord stood before him. "You do not in the least look like a wizard," Gwaihir said. "You haven't a beard, and a pointy hat is absolutely de rigueur."

"No, I do not look like a wizard," Legolas quickly agreed, "but _you_ look like a Lord of the Air—sharp of beak, broad of wing, and large of heart."

"You cannot be sure of my heart, for my heart you cannot see," rejoined the eagle.

"But by your actions you prove your courage and generosity," Legolas replied.

"I suppose," Gwaihir said dryly, "that you would assay said virtues."

"I had forgotten to mention your wisdom," said Legolas, "for your words reveal the insight of one who is not only great of heart but can read the hearts of others."

Gwaihir chuckled. "Mithrandir was never proof against your slyness; now I can understand why that would be the case. Where would you that I take you? Across the river, I suppose?"

"If you would, and then, in your benevolence, perhaps you might set me down near a band of my kinsfolk who linger near a pond. A band of marauding Orcs are swarming in their direction, and I would warn my people."

"Orcs? Good. I need some employment for my talons."

The eagle bent his head to signify that Legolas might approach and climb between his wings. Returning the feather to his pouch—but more carefully than formerly—the Elf settled himself securely upon Gwaihir, who at once arose into the air. Flying high above the Orcs, who were thus ignorant of their danger, the Wind-Lord quickly transported Legolas to the pond, where the elflings cried out in astonishment when the mighty raptor materialized before them. The older Elves, however, at once perceived what such a strange event might portend. The ellith swiftly guided the elflings to their ponies, and thus the most vulnerable of the party set out at once for the safety of Rivendell. As for Legolas, Lindir, and the other ellyn, they took to the trees, where they waited with bows at the ready. They meant to cover the retreat of the ellith and elflings, and were ready to die in the effort. Above the hidden Elves circled Gwaihir, who, while he might idle away the occasional hour in transporting a stray wizard or Elf, much preferred entertaining himself with Orcs and suchlike vermin. Mithrandir had once told Legolas that Gwaihir had something in common with a cat who would rather toy with a mouse than eat it, and Legolas was about to learn the truth of that assertion.

After mocking Legolas on the river bank, the Orcs had fallen silent, for they knew that Elves were keen of ear. Above, however, Gwaihir dipped his wing as soon as he spied the enemy approaching. Some believe that Orcs breathe so loudly that one may shoot them in the dark. Still, an Orc on the hunt can be as quiet as a weasel. The Elves appreciated the eagle's warning, and they drew their bowstrings taut. The first Orc, a scout chosen because he was the quietest of the lot, crept to the edge of the clearing in which lay the pond. Spying cloaks and the accouterments of a festive excursion, the Orc hesitated. Anxious to draw in his companions, the Elves remained silent in the trees, and above Gwaihir continued to circle.

Hearing and seeing no foes, the Orc called to his companions, and they swarmed incautiously into the clearing, eager to eat the abandoned food, which was much better than their usual fare. Casting aside their weapons, they began to stuff their maws with the remnants of the elven repast. Many, however, never had the chance to chew—let alone swallow—the scavenged viands. As soon as all were distracted by their gluttony, Lindir gave the signal to fire. "Leithio i philinn!" he cried. _Release the arrows!_

The Elves were few in number, but after the first volley they quickly shot off a second, and between their accuracy and their speed, they brought down many of their enemies. As for Gwaihir, the moment the Elves released their first volley, he plummeted into the midst of the Orcs. Seizing one in his talons, he carried it aloft as if it were no heavier than a cony and then dropped it. Shrieking, the Orc fell like a stone and smashed into one of its fellows. Both of them were slain by the impact. The eagle thrice amused himself in this fashion and then, observing that the number of his foes had dwindled, slowly flew off toward the Misty Mountains, where he had his eyrie. As he departed, the Elves slew the last of their enemies.

Several days later, Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel stood on the balcony of Elrond's study and discussed the peculiar events that Legolas had related when he returned to Rivendell with Lindir and the other ellyn.

"It seems to me," Glorfindel said gravely, "that some power wished to interfere with Mithrandir's journey. That would account for the river's unexpected rise."

"True," agreed Erestor. "And this same power wanted to allow the Orcs into our lands. That would explain why, when the Orcs drew near, the water in the river fell so low."

"The power wanted to allow the Orcs to cross, but it wanted to hinder Legolas," continued Glorfindel. "Once Legolas was on the wrong side of the river, that power wanted to prevent his returning and going to the aid of his kinsfolk."

"And so the river rose again," finished Erestor. He and Glorfindel looked at Elrond.

"I believe," Elrond said slowly, "that the two of you are correct. Some power has been manipulating the Bruinen."

"Sauron," Erestor said aloud. 'Saruman', Glorfindel said silently. The balrog-slayer had lately come to share Legolas's suspicions about the White Wizard.

Elrond looked across the valley that had been for so long a sanctuary but which, he suspected, would not long remain proof against resurgent evil. He was aware of Legolas and Glorfindel's suspicions and to some extent shared them. But, as he had told the two Elves on several occasions, they had no proof. In any event, if Saruman proved to be a threat, that would not make Sauron any less of one.

Erestor and Glorfindel continued looking expectantly at Elrond. "I think," the elf-lord said at last, "that we must strive to counter this power, whatever it may be. We must place spells upon the water of the Bruinen so that it will admit our friends but rise up against our enemies. In this endeavor we must ask Mithrandir to assist us. Between his power and ours we may be able to hold our foes at bay a little longer."

Glorfindel and Erestor nodded in agreement, and Erestor began to speak energetically about how they might put their plan into effect. "I have seen Mithrandir devise impressive water creatures like unto those he concocts out of smoke. Do you remember those horses he sent galloping across a pond one day for the amusement of the elflings?"

Glorfindel and Elrond both remembered.

"Perhaps," Erestor continued, "Mithrandir can be prevailed upon to set a spell that would call forth a stampede of watery horses should any Orc or other foul creature set foot in the Bruinen."

Erestor's energy and zeal at length lifted Elrond's mood. 'In Middle-earth evil does grow stronger', the elf-lord thought to himself, 'but dare we not hope that its victory may yet be delayed for centuries—even millennia? Indeed, perhaps our Enemy will never triumph over us. Perhaps we will beat Him back as we always have, suffering losses—as I have reason to know—but always enduring, always rebuilding, our peoples renewing themselves no matter how grievous their injuries'.

As Elrond mused, miles away, in an obscure corner of Middle-earth, a proper wizard, beard upon his face, pointy hat upon his head, lifted his staff and prepared to strike it upon a round door, newly painted, behind which dwelled a Hobbit, a redoubtable Hobbit, a hospitable Hobbit. And in the Misty Mountains, Gwaihir perched upon a ridge and waited.


	15. Chapter 15: Another Path

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 14 of _Elf Interludes_: _Joee1, leralonde, Ne'ith5, Elfinabottle, Maiden, ziggy3,_ and _CAH_.**  
**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as _The Silmarillion_.**

**Several sentences about Legolas and Gimli's visit to Cerin Amroth are taken from paragraphs near the beginning of Chapter 2 of _A Friendship Transcending Death_.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Episode 15: Another Path**

"Legolas," the voice said softly.

"I am here, Aragorn."

The elf stepped from the shadow to stand beside the bed where the king peacefully awaited his death. Aragorn calmly gestured toward a chair.  
"Please sit, my friend."

Legolas drew the chair nearer the bed and sat upon it, erect and watchful. Aragorn chuckled. "That chair has a back, Legolas, and you are allowed to recline against it."

The elf relaxed slightly, allowing himself to rest lightly against the back of the chair but maintaining his watchful expression. Aragorn chuckled anew.

"You have the look of a warrior who expects a swarm of orcs to attack at any moment."

"I do not know what I expect," Legolas said wryly. "I have witnessed death, but never like this. I have seen men and elves and dwarves sacrifice themselves in battle, but the act has been sudden and impetuous. They fight against death, and even if death be unavoidable, they struggle on, buying time for their kinsmen but also buying themselves a few last moments of life, hoping until the end for a reprieve from their fate. But you do not struggle. You summon death and welcome it."

"I welcome it indeed."

"But I do not understand why. You were hale and healthy—you could have lived decades more, beloved by both wife and children. Why now?"

"Because I am hale and hearty—was hale and hearty," Aragorn quickly corrected. "Legolas, I was at the height of my powers—both in mind and body. Because I had not yet begun to decline, the kingdom was at its height as well. Had I lingered, my grasp on affairs of state would have weakened, and at my departure, Eldarion would have ascended to a throne under threat from enemies who would have begun to press against our borders. By taking leave now, when only a few weeks ago I was seen to be hale and vigorous, I have forestalled any challenge to my son. I will be gone before our foes have a chance to move against the kingdom. When they hear of my death, they may think to try Eldarion's strength, but by the time they are prepared to act, he will have rallied his soldiers and assembled his councilors. His position will be unassailable."

Legolas slowly nodded. "I understand," he said reluctantly, "I cannot fault you. But I must own that it is hard to see you depart. Forgive me," the elf added hastily. "It is selfish of me to mention it."

Aragorn shook his head. "It grieves me to cause pain to both you and Arwen. It is I who should beg for forgiveness."

"You may as well apologize for being mortal, Aragorn. It is true that you have chosen the day of your death, but death itself is your lot and not your choice."

"No, but it became Arwen's choice," Aragorn murmured, "and for that I am responsible."

"Arwen would be indignant if she heard you say that," Legolas pointed out. "She would argue that she alone is responsible for her choices and that if you claim otherwise, that would be the same as saying that she does not know her own mind."

Aragorn laughed. "I would never dare to say anything of the sort!"

"I am glad to hear it, husband."

Aragorn and Legolas both looked toward the door as Arwen stepped across the threshold. In her hand she held a bouquet of Simbelmynë, a plant from Rohan that was now naturalized throughout Aragorn's realm. Éomer had ordered that the Evermind flower be planted upon the graves of Riders who fell far from home in the defense of Minas Tirith during the War of the Ring, and from that time onward the custom had spread throughout Gondor.  
Arwen carefully arranged the flowers in a vase that sat on the table next to her husband's bed. To Legolas, she seemed unchanged from the days when she and Aragorn had first pledged their troth so that her hair, dark like her father's and brother's stood in sharp contrast to Aragorn's. Until a few weeks ago, the King's hair had been the same brown as it had been on the day he had married the granddaughter of Eärendil the Mariner. Now Aragorn's hair was silver. His grey eyes, however, were undimmed, and they looked upon his wife with the same ardor with which he had first beheld her. She, too, beheld him with emotions unaltered. His silver hair, his lined face, the subtle trembling that was beginning to overtake his limbs as he refused food—these meant nothing to her. She smiled upon her husband.

"You arrived past midnight, Legolas," she said as added water to the vase. "I was only now told that you were in the city. Have you broken fast?"

"I had a morsel," the elf replied. Arwen looked sharply at him.

"I do not decline food," Legolas reassured her. "I ate a little to take the edge from my hunger, but I preserved the most of my appetite so that I might dine with my friends."

"You may dine with me," Arwen said sadly, "but you are too late to share a meal with Aragorn."

"You will not break bread with me?" Legolas said, turning to Aragorn. "I have traveled a long way to share a meal with you."

"I will share a meal with you for the sake of our friendship," Aragorn conceded. "Gimli is with you, is he not?"

"Yes, but he is still snoring."

"See that he is awake in time for the noon meal. I do not mean to be inveigled into dining twice, once with you, and once with him!"

"Ah, so it is no good sending your friends one by one, day after day."

"I would tarry only for the members of the Fellowship," Aragorn replied gravely, "and of them only you and Gimli are left."

Several hours later, with Gimli at his side, Legolas returned to the king's bedchamber. There he found Aragorn propped up on pillows. Arwen had absented herself, for she wanted to give the three surviving members of the Fellowship time to reminisce. She would take her leave of her husband a little later—but not much later, for it was plain that the time of their final parting drew near.

Aragorn could stomach only a little broth, but he encouraged his friends to eat heartily. Gimli, whose appetite was rarely affected by his mood, stolidly worked his way through slabs of bread, cheese, and cold meat. Legolas, however, could only swallow a few bites of the repast. Unlike Aragorn, he had not willed away his appetite, but his throat felt thick as he looked upon his dying friend. Even sipping wine proved difficult.

"Do not fret, Legolas," Aragorn said kindly when he observed the difficulty the elf had in swallowing. "Do not force yourself to eat if you lack the appetite."

'He has always been solicitous of the welfare of his friends', Legolas thought to himself. 'Even as he faces death, he concerns himself with my comfort'.  
By now Gimli had finished his meal. He cleared his throat and so gained the attention of both Aragorn and Legolas.

"Now, I know this here persnickety elf is going to object," the dwarf declared, "but I will not take my leave of Aragorn without I share one last pipe with him."

"I will not object," Legolas said quickly. He smiled a little at the thought of his many friends who had loved pipe weed: Sam and Frodo, Pippin and Merry, Bilbo and Gandalf, Gimli and Aragorn. Of them, only Gimli would be left to him. His smile faltered.

Legolas came out of his reverie at the sound of a triumphant shout. Gimli had succeeded in sending a smoke ring through one of Aragorn's smoke rings. The dwarf had been striving to accomplish this feat for decades, ever since meeting Gandalf and observing the wizard perform the trick. Legolas could not help himself: he laughed at the triumphant expression on Gimli's face. Really, the dwarf could be as eager as a child sometimes—an endearing trait that amused Legolas no end. 'I remember', the elf reflected, 'that once I did not allow myself to enjoy these sudden strokes of merriment, for I obstinately refused to recognize the difference between childish and childlike. Gimli is the latter—swift to take pleasure in small things and generous in sharing his joy with others'.

Gimli was chuckling over his smoke rings, and Legolas was smiling at the delight the dwarf was taking in something so simple. Legolas caught Aragorn's eye. The king was smiling also. "Your friendship with Gimli gives me great pleasure," Aragorn murmured. "It gave pleasure to Gandalf, too. He once told me, next the destruction of the Ring, he accounted as his greatest achievement the friendship between you and Gimli."

Legolas made a wry face. "Gimli and I must have been prodigiously contrary for Gandalf to have believed that," he said.

"You were!" chuckled Aragorn. "You still are!"

"What are you two on about?" Gimli grumbled. He had finished his bowl of pipe weed and was now attending to their conversation.

"We were discussing your irascibility," Legolas said blandly.

"_**My**_ irascibility? It is nothing as compared to _**yours**_!"

Both Legolas and Aragorn laughed heartily, and after glowering for a moment, Gimli joined in. Their laughter was stinted only by a knock upon the door. Legolas crossed over to the door and opened it. Without stood Eldarion, Arwen and Aragorn's son. "The time grows short," the young man said softly. Legolas nodded. He returned to Aragorn's side. The man looked keenly at him. "Yes," he said gravely. "This is the day I have chosen."  
The three friends sat quietly for a little while, looking from one to the other. At last Gimli muttered something about a dry throat. The dwarf refilled his flagon and went to stand by the window—to study the city's stonework, he told himself.

Behind him Aragorn and Legolas talked quietly. "After my death, you will remain?" Aragorn said. It was an appeal, not a question.

"I will stay as long as is needful," Legolas promised. "I will stay until it is no longer true that uneasy lies the head that wears the crown."

Aragorn chuckled. "If that is your promise, then you will stay long."

"Eldarion is wise and even-tempered, Aragorn. I think that he will only have need of me for a little while."

"And after you will depart to the West."

Legolas did not answer. Both he and Aragorn looked toward the window where Gimli was expostulating to himself on the lamentable state of the walls of Minas Tirith, which would, it seems, never rival those to be found within the great city of Dwarrowdelf.

"I am sorry," Aragorn said softly. "It may be that Arwen and I shall meet again after the Time of Waiting. I know of no lore, however, that prophesies the reunion of Elda and Nauga."

The two friends fell silent as they watched their third companion. At length Gimli returned to sit with them once more. Then Aragorn gestured toward a small casket. "Legolas, pray, hand me that box."

The elf did as he was bidden. Aragorn opened the casket and drew forth a pair of vambraces. Legolas recognized them at once. Boromir had worn them, and after his death Aragorn had donned them in his honor. Now Aragorn handed the leather arm-guards to the elf. Silently Legolas accepted them and strapped them on his forearms.

Next Aragorn reached into the box and removed a leather pouch. He handed the pouch to Gimli. The dwarf unknotted the strings and drew forth a plain clay pipe. It was the one Aragorn had carried on their quest. Silently Gimli packed the bowl with pipe weed, although he did not light it at once. Legolas knew that he would smoke the pipe weed in his friend's memory.

Another gentle knock was heard. Dwarf and elf arose. Gimli stuck out his hand, and Aragorn took it. The dwarf cleared his throat. "Well, good-bye," he said gruffly. Abruptly he dropped Aragorn's hand and turned away, his inability to speak as meaningful as if he had delivered the most eloquent of orations.

Now Legolas took Aragorn's hand. "Le hannon," elf and man said simultaneously. Both smiled. The elf bent down and kissed Aragorn's forehead as the man had once kissed the forehead of the departed Boromir. "My brother, my captain, my king," the elf whsipered. Then he turned as abruptly as the dwarf had. "Come, Gimli," he called and strode from the room. At the door, he nodded to Eldarion, who now quietly entered the chamber to take his own farewell.

That night, after taking leave of his son and his wife, Aragorn closed his eyes and almost imperceptibly slipped from sleep to death. Caressing his hand, Arwen sat by his side until dawn. As the sun entered the room, it fell upon Estel's face, and his silver hair turned to gold. Then Arwen arose and filled a basin with water. Alone, for she would accept no help, she bathed her husband and dressed him in garments that she had long ago sewn against this day. For during the War of the Rings, while Arwen bided in Rivendell awaiting word, she had prepared not only her trousseau but also funeral garb both for herself and for her betrothed. Now she faced the inevitable outcome of their love for one another, an outcome she had willing embraced even in the face of her father's pleas.

Three days later, with Eldarion at its head, a procession passed through Fen Hollen and slowly made its way down the Rath Dínen toward the tomb that long ago had been prepared for Aragorn Elessar, of the House of Telcontar. Arwen Undómiel, a shawl over her head, walked by the side of her husband. Legolas and Gimli walked amongst the pallbearers, Gimli's shortened stride in keeping with the slow pace of the procession, as if all his life had been meant to culminate in this moment. Silently the mourners passed the Dead Tree, descendant of Nimloth, which had stood in the Court of the Fountain until hope had flowered anew and Gandalf had guided Aragorn to a sapling scion of the White Tree of Númenor. Somberly they paced past the tombs of Meriadoc and Peregrin of the Shire, the two Periannath who had been vouchsafed burial amongst the kings and stewards of Gondor by virtue of the great deeds they had performed in the service of Aragorn Elessar.

The procession reached Aragorn's tomb. Gently the pall-bearers laid their king upon the catafalque. Then all withdrew save Arwen, Eldarion, and the two surviving members of the Fellowship. "He might be sleeping," Gimli murmured. It was true. In the three days since his death, no sign of corruption had befallen Aragorn's body, even though the men of Gondor eschewed the customs of the folk of the far south and did not embalm their dead. Arwen lowered her shawl and gazed for the last time upon her husband. "It is as my father prophesied," she said softly. "Estel has become an image of the splendor of the kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world." She drew her shawl over her head once more, and accompanied by Eldarion, she departed the tomb. Gimli drew out the pipe that Aragorn had given him. He had not smoked pipe weed since the King's death. "I mean to use this pipe as you would have wanted," he said, addressing Aragorn as if he were still alive. "I am going to find myself a nice corner and blow such smoke rings as would make you proud. Fare thee well, laddie." Gimli turned and marched out of the tomb as resolute as if he were going to battle.

Now Legolas alone remained. Gently he touched the scar on Aragorn's lip. "I was the one who by ill chance gave you that scar," he said aloud. Like Gimli, the elf addressed Aragorn as if he were alive. "I am glad, though," he continued, "that this scar was not the only impression I made upon you! We have been marked by our friendship—the both of us, some signs visible, some not." Legolas bethought himself of the birthmark that was shared by all the members of the Fellowship—the odd marking that for all the world looked like the elven word for 'nine'.

Legolas took Aragorn's hand. Odd that the even after three days the fingers were pliable and felt warm—perhaps the procession's slow pace through sunlit streets accounted for that peculiar phenomenon. Legolas studied Aragorn's fingers, calloused from a lifetime of archery. The elf examined his own fingers, likewise calloused, and he thought back to all the occasions when the two had drawn bows as one. Together they had stalked many a deer and many an orc. And after each hunt and each battle they had shared food and drink and song and story. "You are still with me," the elf said suddenly. "You have given of yourself—to me, to Gimli, to all the others. We will never be truly sundered as long as one of us still lives and carries with him that part of you that you freely shared."

Carefully Legolas laid Aragorn's hand upon the hilt of his sword. "Daro mae, gwador-nin," he murmured. _Stay well, my brother_. "I do not say farewell, for we neither of us can be parted from the other," he added.

Legolas walked to the door of the chamber. He paused to gaze one last time upon the supine figure who looked as if he might wake at any moment. "Here is no mere image of the former splendor of the kings of Men," the elf said aloud, "for, verily, in Aragorn that splendor has returned. It will never fade, I think."

In Middle-earth, Legolas never again looked upon the face of his friend and sworn brother, but the tale spread amongst the common folk that when the caretakers of the Houses of the Dead had occasion to enter the tomb of Aragorn Elessar, ever was his body untouched by the passage of time. Whether this tale be true, the chronicles do not say.

Legolas returned to the chamber that he shared with Gimli, where the dwarf waited with a message from Arwen, who prayed that the two friends would join her in her private garden. This sanctuary had been fashioned by Legolas himself during the months before Arwen journeyed from Rivendell to espouse her husband, for the elf knew it would be hard for Arwen to exchange the forests of Imladris for life in a city of stone. Many of the plants were descendants of ones that Legolas had planted with his own hands, and the flowers that Arwen had brought each day to Aragorn's chamber as he lay dying had been gathered in this place.

Arwen had been seated on one of the moss-covered tuffets that served as benches in this garden, which was devoid of any man-made objects of wood or stone. She arose when Legolas and Gimli entered the garden. "Please, my lady," Legolas said quickly. "Do not rise on our account."

"Then you must not address me as 'my lady'," Arwen replied, smiling. "For I was Arwen when you met me, and I am Arwen still."

"Then must_** I**_ still address you as 'my lady'?" Gimli harrumphed. "For you _**were **_'my lady' when I made your acquaintance at a stuffy banquet where I had to sit through toast after toast—and the most of them in wine!"

Gimli blustered indignantly as he alluded to the unfortunate fact that Rivendell had run short of beer at the banquet the day before the Council of Elrond. Arwen smiled and picked up a pitcher. "Allow me to make amends, dear Gimli. For you, there will always be sufficient brew kept on hand in Minas Tirith. I have given orders that even after my departure this will be so."

Gimli had opened his mouth to reply, but at the word 'departure', he clapped it shut again. He nodded his thanks as he accepted a flagon at her hand, and he retreated to the other side of the garden, muttering that he didn't want his pipe to trouble his companions—'being persnickety elves and all'.

Behind him, Legolas picked up a stemmed glass and held it up so that the red wine sparkled in the sun. "Departure," he said softly.

"You know whereof I speak, Legolas," Arwen replied steadily.

"Are you certain you want to do this, Arwen? You still have Eldarion. And your daughters. They are well-settled, but you have not yet seen their sons and daughters. Do you not wish to tarry until they send word that they have given birth to Estel's grandchildren?"

"I do not want to know them only to lose them as well," Arwen answered sadly. "Worse, I fear that the bond between me and Aragorn may be sundered if I do not relinquish my life in Middle-earth. I swore to cleave to him at the expense of my immortality. If I linger in Arda, I fear that the Valar will mistake me and that I will forfeit any chance that Aragorn and I may be reunited after the Time of Waiting. I do not want to live on if by doing so I am parted forever from Estel."

"I understand," said Legolas. "I begin to fear that I, too, must depart this place."

"Depart you shall, but not now, Legolas," Arwen replied. "Moreover, you must follow another path, one that Gimli may follow as well."

"I do not know how we can follow the same path," Legolas said sadly. "In the end both you and Aragorn are Peredhil, even if Estel's elven blood is much diluted. Gimli and I, however, are of different races altogether."

"You must follow another path, Legolas," Arwen repeated. She smiled enigmatically, and Legolas was suddenly reminded of Arwen's grandmother, Galadriel, as she had long ago stood in her Glade in Lothlórien both giving and withholding counsel at one and the same time.

"I will follow another path," Legolas agreed, "although I cannot imagine what form that path may take. At least it is not likely to be the Paths of the Day, for now that way is truly shut."

"You did not find that Path dreadful."

"No, but Gimli did, and I should not like to force him to go that way again."

"I trust you shall find a path less daunting."

"But your path, Arwen," Legolas frowned. "Will it not be daunting?"

"When I think upon Aragorn's peaceful face and remember the calmness of his final days, I am not afraid. But there is one matter that distresses me, and it is why I wished to speak with you. I mean to lay down my mortal life in Lothlórien, on Cerin Amroth. It seems fitting that I take my leave of Middle-earth at the place where Aragorn and I pledged our troth."

"It is a beautiful place, filled with with joyful memories," Legolas agreed. "But that land is empty, for the Galadhrim long ago departed for the Grey Havens."

"True. Yet there I would take my farewell from this land. After, will you come to me, Legolas, so that my passing is not left unmarked?"

"How long?" Legolas asked simply.

"A year, Laiqua. After one full passage of the sun, come to me at Cerin Amroth."

_A year later, Legolas and Gimli forced their way through a thicket of brambles that had sprung up the flanks of Cerin Amroth. Gimli did mighty work with the axe that day. Once they had broken through that thorny barricade, in the center of the knoll they found Arwen, who lay as if sleeping. It seemed to Legolas as if her uncorrupted body had been guarded by the thicket until such time as someone might come to erect a more lasting memorial. Gimli devised a cart in which they fetched blocks of stones, long slabs that he himself carved from the bones of the Misty Mountains, and Gimli showed Legolas how together they might raise the walls that would forever shelter Aragorn's Queen. Then Gimli carved upon the sides of the tomb the elvish words that Legolas traced for him in the dirt. Afterward the dwarf added some lettering of his own devising._

_"What do those runes signify, Gimli?" Legolas had asked._

_Gimli remained quiet for a long time before he finally spoke. "They would not be parted."_

_That evening, at the foot of Cerin Amroth, Legolas watched as Gimli lay sleeping. The dwarf was wrapped in the Lórien cloak that never seemed to show its age. 'That cloak is like your friendship', Aragorn had once said to him. 'It will never fray'._

_Gimli coughed in his sleep and, mumbling, he drew the cloak tighter. Legolas watched him anxiously. Would Gimli begin to age now? Aragorn had departed, and now Arwen had followed him. Would Gimli leave him, too?_

_'They would not be parted'. Again and again the night whispered Gimli's words. And then Legolas heard another voice: 'You must follow another path, one that Gimli may follow as well'._

_The next morning, on the horse that they shared, elf and dwarf rode away from Cerin Amroth. Legolas glanced back at the knoll. 'I swear to you that I shall find that other path', the elf silently promised._

_The boughs of the trees atop Cerin Amroth swayed, and it seemed to Legolas that in the gentle breeze he heard again the voice of Arwen. 'Then you will not be parted', she whispered. 'Then you will not be parted'._


	16. Chapter 16: Shoulder to Shoulder

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 15 of _Elf Interludes_: _Lasette -1982, leralonde, KsandrarMallan, Sadie Sil -English stories, Maiden, _and _CAH_. Thanks also to_ nim draug_, who recently reviewed the first episode of this series.  
**

**I am hopelessly behind in answering reviews, and I have given up any thought of catching up until the end of the semester. However, I do want to assure people that I read and am grateful for every review.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_.**** The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as _The Silmarillion_.**

**The premise behind this episode is that events are converging that will culminate in the Council of Elrond.  
**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest (which I promise I will work on over the Christmas break), but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**gwador-nín—'my brother' (Sindarin)**  
**Mörder—'Murderer' (German)**  
**Übel—'Evil' (German)**

**Episode 16: Shoulder to Shoulder  
**

Legolas willed himself to stop breathing as the ruffian rifled his clothing. The robber thrust his hand into the elf's tunic. "Nothing," the robber announced in disgust, withdrawing his hand. "Only the coins in his pouch, and they're copper. You shouldn't have slain him, Übel. We could have sold him for a slave."

Übel shrugged. "We can sell his weapons, his belt, and his boots," he said nonchalantly. "His cloak, too."

"True. But we had best rinse the cloak quickly, before the blood sets."

"Give it me, Mörder. We passed a stream not a quarter mile from here."

Mörder bent over Legolas and unpinned the star-shaped brooch that fastened his cloak. The ruffian squinted at the brooch. "This should bring a good price," he gloated. "It is uncommonly well made." He pulled the cloak out from beneath the limp elf, balled it up, and tossed it to Übel, who set off for the stream. Behind him, Mörder knelt at Legolas's feet and began to tug at a boot. His head down as he concentrated at his task, he did not see Legolas open his eyes and carefully reach toward a rock. Suddenly the elf sat up and with both hands brought the rock down upon Mörder's head. The blow fell upon the point where the skull met the neck, and the ruffian did not make a sound as he slumped dead upon the ground.

Ignoring the broken arrow shaft that protruded from his chest, Legolas crawled to his bow and quiver. Clutching an arrow and the bow in one hand, the elf used the other hand to scrabble to his feet. Grimacing, he leaned against a tree and nocked the arrow. At last he heard the breaking of sticks under the heavy feet of Übel. The brigand had been quiet enough when he and Mörder had ambushed Legolas, but now the arrogant ruffian was fatally mistaken in assuming that no danger could be at hand. Legolas drew back the bowstring.

The man stepped into the clearing, wringing out Legolas's cloak, and the elf paused only long enough to allow the ruffian to gape in shock before he released the arrow. The man dropped the cloak to claw at the arrow that pierced his throat, staggered sideways, and collapsed, his body jerking only a few times before he, like his fellow, lay dead.

Legolas slid down to sit at the base of the tree and closed his eyes for several minutes. He was no longer in danger of losing his weapons and boots, without which he would surely die, but his survival was not yet assured. He was badly injured and miles from help. After several minutes he opened his eyes and looked down at his chest. He did not think that he could draw the stump of the arrow, but he was untroubled by that fact: drawing it would probably be unwise for he would bleed anew. He looked about him. The clearing was devoid of any birds or animals that he could press into service as messengers. Indeed, he had neither seen nor heard any wild creatures since entering the forest. It was altogether an unfriendly place, and Legolas was not surprised that none of the trees had warned him that two men were lying in wait at the edge of the glade. The friendship between elves and trees had existed since the Elder Days, but these trees, it seemed, no longer honored the alliance. Sighing, he staggered to his feet and made his laborious way to his pack and pouch, whose contents Mörder had dumped upon the ground. From the dirt Legolas picked up three leaves. The brigand had ignored them in favor of the coins, but to Legolas the leaves were more valuable than any copper pieces. He chewed one and rubbed the resulting paste around the edge of his wound. His pain eased a little, and he set about picking up his scattered belongings. He retrieved his camp kettle and cup and spoon and replaced them in his pack, as well as such foodstuffs as had not been spoiled by being spilled from their wrappers. His blanket he carefully rolled and replaced in the pack as well. The copper coins, as well as his flint and steel and tinder, he returned to the small pouch he wore at his waist, and his two matched knives he resheathed. His cloak was still damp, but he pinned it around his shoulders nonetheless—it would dry faster than if it were stuffed into the pack.

Once Legolas had repacked his belongings, he looked about for a sturdy limb that would serve him as a staff. He examined and discarded two before he found one of the proper height and width. Slowly, using the staff to keep his balance, he began to retrace his steps. He was nearer to Imladris than to Lothlórien, so it seemed better to return than to press on ahead.

In Imladris at that very moment, a concerned Elrond was urging Gandalf to drink a potion. In the middle of a conversation with the Master of Rivendell, the wizard had suddenly clutched at his chest and cried out in pain.

"Agéd men sometimes suffer from attacks of the heart," Erestor observed anxiously as Elrond had busied himself mixing up the potion.

"Heart attacks," Elrond corrected, "but Mithrandir is no man. He is a Maia, and I have never heard that they are subject to the ailments that trouble mortals."

Now Elrond was trying to convince this Maia to swallow his potion, but Gandalf kept pushing the cup away and crying 'Legolas! Legolas!' Elrond's concern grew into anxiety, and Erestor's anxiety turned to panic. "He must indeed be ill," exclaimed the tutor, "else why would he call so frantically for his protégé? It is as if he wishes to bid the lad farewell!"

"I do not think the case is as grave as that," Elrond replied, "but we had certainly better send for Legolas, for the lad's presence likely will calm our friend. Fetch Glorfindel, I pray you!"

The tutor, who normally prided himself on his measured elegance, bolted from the room as gracelessly as if he had been Figwit—and, indeed, Erestor very nearly bowled over that astonished personage as he caromed around a corner in search of the balrog slayer. "Glorfindel," the tutor cried when he found him in the armory fletching an arrow. "Glorfindel! You must go after Legolas. Mithrandir is in dreadful pain, and Elrond thinks Legolas might comfort him."

Glorfindel dropped his arrow and followed Erestor back to Elrond's study, where Gandalf was still crying frantically after Legolas.

Miles away, Legolas found his vision blurring. He tripped over a tree root and fell sideways, crying out as he did so. Simultaneously, a moaning Gandalf likewise slumped sideways. Glorfindel caught hold of him, else he would have fallen from his chair. "We had better lay him upon the settle," Elrond said. With Erestor anxiously superintending, Elrond and Glorfindel gently carried Gandalf to the settle, where the Maia continued thrashing and calling out for Legolas. Quickly Elrond told Glorfindel where he might find the young elf. "Legolas has set out for Lothlórien," he informed the balrog slayer. "He means to take the pass of Caradhras. He is afoot, for the scouts have recently reported that portions of the trail through the pass have crumbled and may not be traversed by horse until they have been shored up. On horse, you should be able to catch up with him swiftly, for I do think he can have reached the mountain."

With a curt nod, Glorfindel turned abruptly and strode from the chamber. Stopping only for his weapons and his kit, he was soon at the stable saddling a horse. Leading one mount and riding another, he galloped across the bridge and quickly vanished into the trees that grew thick on the flanks of the mountains that guarded Rivendell.

After tripping over the tree root, Legolas lay quietly for several hours husbanding his strength. 'No one in Lothlórien knows that I am journeying thence', he said to himself. 'So no one will set out to look from me from that place'. He unwrapped a wafer of lembas and broke off an edge. 'Several weeks will pass before anyone from Rivendell comes looking for me', he continued as he nibbled on the fragment of wayfarer's bread. 'They would expect me to be away for a month at least'.

He lay a little longer considering. 'I must see to my own survival', he told himself. He looked about. 'Should I turn aside to make a shelter and rest so that I may regain my strength, or should I keep to the trail, moving toward Rivendell no matter how slow my progress?'

Miles away in Rivendell, Gandalf shouted, "Keep to the trail!" Elrond and Erestor exchanged perplexed glances.

'Even if no one comes looking for me, I may encounter scouts on routine patrol', Legolas said to himself. Very well! I shall keep to the trail'. Laboriously, he used his staff to push himself up from the ground, and he began to hobble northward. After a little while, he found that his steps grew steadier. 'The rest and the portion of lembas have done me good', he thought. 'If I maintain a slow pace, rest frequently, and keep up my strength with wayfarer's bread, I believe I may be able to return to Imladris. With luck, I shall encounter friends even before then'.

In Rivendell, Gandalf relaxed. "I think I shall have a bite to eat now," he said cheerfully, rising from the settle. Erestor gaped, and Elrond's eyebrows shot up. "Whatever is the matter with you two?" Gandalf asked. "Erestor, if Legolas or the twins let their mouths hang open like that, you should chide them. And, Elrond, someday your eyebrows shall be lost in your hairline if you do not exercise a little control over them." With that, the wizard strode from the room.

"He seems to have recovered," Elrond said dryly.

"Should we recall Glorfindel?" Erestor asked.

"I doubt that would be possible," Elrond replied. "Glorfindel will have been alternating horses, leaping from one to the other so that he can ride without cease. We may as well allow him to reach Legolas and return with him. Come, let us go after Mithrandir. With his usual excellent sense of timing, he has recovered precisely in time for supper."

Several days later, two horses rode up to the Great Hall. On one was Glorfindel; on the other, his chest swathed in bandages torn from Glorfindel's cloak, was Legolas. Always keeping to the trail, the young elf had walked steadily for three days. At last he had heard the sound of bells fastened to a horse's headstall. Greatly relieved, he was smiling in spite of his wound when Glorfindel galloped into view. "Glorfindel," he cried, "I do not know why you decided to make the journey to Lothlórien, but I am glad that you did!"

Glorfindel dismounted and gently urged Legolas to sit upon a log by the side of the trail. "I came on Mithrandir's account," he said as he examined the young elf's chest. He nodded approvingly. "You have rubbed a paste of athelas around the wound, and you did not try to draw the arrow yourself." He examined Legolas's face and then felt the pulse in his neck. "Your color is good, and your heart beats strongly. You are not in shock. I believe I may safely draw the arrow. I deem that any resulting blood loss will not harm you greatly. Then, when you are well bandaged, you will be able to ride without fear of jolting an arrow shaft, and so we shall return to Imladris all the faster."

Legolas lay flat upon the ground. Glorfindel offered him a stick to bite upon, but the young elf did not feel the need. With one hand Glorfindel pressed down upon Legolas's chest while with the other he pulled steadily upon the broken arrow. Moving slowly, bit by bit he withdrew the jagged fragment. Legolas winced when Glorfindel had to rotate the shaft a little as the arrow point caught upon one of his ribs, but the young elf was otherwise stoic. "I would not think the worse of you if you cried out," Glorfindel said kindly. "I know," Legolas said, grimacing a little, "but I should move slightly if I did, and that would make withdrawing the arrow harder for you and more painful for me."

Glorfindel nodded, impressed at the young elf's composure. A moment later, he held up the broken missile and examined it. "Mannish," he said, "but not Dunlending. Somewhat akin to the arrows carried by Southrons."

"Yes," agreed Legolas. "The brigands spoke a language like that of the Haradrim, but mixed with words from the Common Speech. I reckon they came from a border area, where tribes mingle."

"How many were there?"

"Two?"

"How many are there now?"

"None."

Glorfindel nodded, satisfied at this laconic exchange. Legolas, however, had more to say.

"I am troubled, Glorfindel," he began.

"Even the greatest warrior may be ambushed," the balrog slayer interrupted him. "I myself have fallen before my enemies."

"You fell, but you weren't ambushed," Legolas said, smiling at Glorfindel's words, which were uttered in matter-of-fact fashion without a hint of grandiosity. "But I am not troubled because _I _was ambushed," Legolas continued. "Rather, the circumstances of the ambush trouble me. The brigands did not spring from behind boulders with stony hearts that might have readily hidden the malefactors. Rather, they were sheltered by trees who ought to have tried to prevent the assault. Instead, the trees remained silent."

"That is troubling indeed," Glorfindel agreed. "I hope those trees have not been suborned by the Enemy."

"Perhaps they were threatened by axe and fire and so remained silent out of fear," Legolas suggested.

"That is possible," Glorfindel assented. "Although it is small consolation if harm befell you because of their timidity rather than because of outright hostility."

"Small consolation perhaps, but an important point nonetheless. The fearful may be reassured. It will be easier to regain timorous trees as allies than if they are rotten to the core, as would be the case if they acted—failed to act, I mean—out of treachery."

Glorfindel was cutting his cloak into strips to be used as bandages, but he continued to speak as he worked. "I hope you are right, Legolas," he said thoughtfully. "We have never been at war with trees. I should not like to think that we would ever need to take up axe against them."

"One thing you may do to show them our respect, I deem," Legolas suggested. "Once you have seen me safe to Rivendell, I hope you will take a party of scouts back to the glade where I was ambushed. I did not have the strength to bury or burn the bodies, so they lie there still, defiling the forest."

"It would serve the trees right if they had to suffer the stench of decaying corpses," Glorfindel said heatedly. "But I will do as you say," he added hastily as Legolas opened his mouth to object. "Whatever my feelings on the matter," the balrog slayer continued, "the course of action you recommend is a wise one."

By now Glorfindel was winding bandages around Legolas's trunk. At length he was satisfied. He brought one of the horses to where Legolas sat and helped the young elf onto the mount. The two of them set a gentle pace for Rivendell.

As they rode, Legolas asked Glorfindel what he had meant when he said that he had come on Mithrandir's account.

"Did Mithrandir ask you to come after me?" the young elf said.

"Not in so many words," Glorfindel replied. "That old codger can be remarkably communicative even whilst failing to inform his auditors of his intentions."

"The same could be said of you at this moment," Legolas retorted. "May I trouble you to explain your riddle?"

"Do you remember when you felt in your own body an injury that Mithrandir had suffered?"

"Mithrandir felt the pain of my wound," said Legolas promptly, the truth dawning on him at once.

"Yes, and he cried out for you. Elrond thought that Mithrandir wanted you fetched so that you might comfort him, but I see now that you were the one in peril. Now you are safe, the old rascal is probably lounging at ease indulging in his vile habit of smoking pipe weed."

Glorfindel had hit the mark. As Glorfindel and Legolas dismounted from their steeds before the Great Hall, Gandalf was sitting in the garden emitting vaporous seagulls that gathered around the statue of Gil-galad. "Not very respectful of you," observed Elrond from his vantage point on a bench by the fountain.

"Nonsense," Gandalf observed insouciantly. "The seagull is a venerable bird, a portent of great import."

"Redundant."

"Pardon?"

"To say that a portent has import."

"I said _great_ import," Gandalf pointed out.

"A portent without great import would be a pretty poor portent," Elrond retorted.

"Elrond, I needs must introduce you to Peter Piper."

"Peter Piper?"

"Yes. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Have you never heard of him?"

Elrond was spared of the necessity of uttering an alliterative retort by the arrival of Figwit. "My Lord," he reported excitedly. "Glorfindel and Legolas have returned."

"I am sure," Elrond addressed Gandalf ironically, "that Legolas shall now thank you for recalling him from his much-anticipated visit to Lothlórien."

"Indeed he will," the wizard replied cheerfully. Just then Glorfindel and Legolas entered the garden, and Elrond's eyebrows shot up at the sight of Legolas's bandaged chest. Elrond turned to look at Gandalf, who assumed a provokingly innocent expression for several minutes until he could not resist winking. As for Elrond, at the wink _he_ could not forebear rolling his eyes. Legolas looked from one to the other in bewilderment until Elrond took his arm and gently guided him to the House of Healing, where he was to spend the next fortnight continuing his recuperation.

"The tie between Mithrandir and Legolas is every bit as strong as it was when Legolas was an elfling," Elrond remarked to Glorfindel later that evening after returning from checking on the young elf's welfare.

"True," the balrog slayer said thoughtfully. "It is certain that Legolas's destiny is linked in some way with Mithrandir's."

"Not Mithrandir's alone," Elrond said. "Estel's as well."

"You are thinking of the birthmark."

"Yes. It can be no accident that Legolas, Estel, and Mithrandir all bear a mark that looks like the elven word for nine. It defies reason to think that such a birthmark be shared by man, elf, and wizard out of pure happenstance."

"But why nine?" Glorfindel wondered. This was a conversation he and Elrond had had before, and as before the elves could only guess.

"Nine objects, nine places, nine tasks, nine battles, nine enemies, nine companions—it may be one of these or something else altogether," said Elrond, shaking his head.

"Whatever it is, since Mithrandir is mixed up in it, it will involve danger," Glorfindel frowned. "And for that reason, my friend," Elrond replied, "I am glad you have been the one to train Legolas in weapons craft. He will be ready for whatever he must confront."

"Oh, yes, in terms of martial skills, he is ready," said Glorfindel. "But one is never ready for death—whether one's own death or the fall of a comrade."

As he spoke, it seemed to Glorfindel that before him towered a balrog. It was a creature in which shadow and flame comingled so that its monstrous shape was ever shifting. He shuddered. 'I returned from my fall', he said to himself, 'but mine was no ordinary fate. I pray that Legolas not be doomed to face this malevolent beast'.

From far away the balrog slayer heard Elrond calling him. "Come back, my friend! Come back!" Glorfindel shook his head to clear it of the vision and found himself once again in Elrond's study. What he had seen he refused to tell Elrond, for all visions are equivocal and he did not wish to grieve his friend unnecessarily.

That night, in his dreams Glorfindel wandered in a dark place in which rows of massive columns marched off into a blackness that his eyes could not penetrate. "Come back, my friend! Come back!" he heard someone calling, but he could not make out who it was. Was someone crying for Legolas's return, or was it Legolas's voice that he heard?

Meanwhile, Legolas lay wide awake in his chamber in the House of Healing. It was not his chest wound that kept him awake. Rather, the skin around the birth mark on his forearm burned dreadfully. He had to fight the impulse to rub it, for he knew that would only make matters worse. "What is the matter, gwador-nín?" asked Elrohir. Elrond had said that Legolas needed no nursing during the night, but Elrohir and his twin had insisted on taking turns keeping vigil by the side of their foster brother.

"My birthmark aches," Legolas sighed. "It is a strange fate I should suffer so much pain over so small a thing. Such a—"

"—little thing," Frodo finished, kicking aside his bedclothes. "I may as well go into the garden," he proclaimed to the night, "for I cannot sleep."

Pulling a cloak over his nightshirt, he wandered outside. "I am not the only one awake," he muttered as he espied a light in a window of the Hobbit hole that his gardener, Samwise Gamgee, shared with his gaffer. Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his hip. "Ow!" he exclaimed, hastily pulling his hand away from the spot where, underneath his shirt, lay his birthmark. "Of all the places to be stung by a bee," he muttered. Frodo had long ago learned that the skin around his birthmark was unusually sensitive and sometimes ached for no reason at all.

In the kitchen of the Gamgee's hole, Samwise ruefully rubbed his ankle. "Don't know why it should hurt so," he grumbled. "Might as well set the kettle on, I'm that wide awake." Cheered by the thought of food, he dismissed his ankle from his mind.

As Samwise sat down to a second supper or first breakfast, depending upon whether one considered it to have been late in the night or early in the morning, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, each unable to sleep, the one because of a sore shoulder and the other because of an aching ankle, met as if by prearrangement outside Master Tolman Cotton's lands, where mushrooms grew in abundance. By the light of the moon, they set to work filling a sack with the delectable fungi and soon forgot their troubles.

Also setting to work, but by the light of a lantern rather than the moon, was one Gimli son of Glóin. Unable to sleep because his birthmark pained him, he hefted a pickaxe and began to rhythmically chip away at a vein of ore within the Lonely Mountain, where gold was as abundant as mushrooms in the Shire. From time to time he took a break to suck upon his pipe. Over the hours, puffs of smoke found their way to an adit and issued forth from the mountain as if it were once again inhabited by—

—a dragon soared from Gandalf's pipe as he paced his chamber in Rivendell whilst resisting the urge to claw at—

—his shoulder ached, but Aragorn had long ago become inured to pain. If anything, on a long night of watching such as this, when weariness threatened, he welcomed the throb in—

—his shoulder did not trouble him, for tonight Boromir was so exultant that he scarcely noticed the soreness. Three times his younger brother Faramir had been vouchsafed a vision—now at last it was his turn, as was only proper. For was it not he, and not Faramir, who would follow their father, Denethor, as Steward—king of Gondor in all but name? 'And after all, what's in a name?' Boromir said to himself as he paced frenetically, back and forth, back and forth. "A sword by any other name would be as deadly!" he declaimed to the tapestries upon the wall.

He strode to a chest and flung it open, pulling forth his own sword. "No weapon is the match of this one," he proclaimed. Then he hesitated, thinking again of his vision. In that dream he thought that the eastern sky grew dark, and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it he heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken,  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Boromir hefted his own sword. "Why seek for a broken sword when Gondor has _my_ sword?" he muttered. Suddenly he felt a spasm of pain in his shoulder. Crying out, he dropped his sword. For a moment it seemed to him that his sword had shattered into pieces as it struck the stone floor. Then the vision passed. His hand trembling a little, Boromir stooped and picked up the weapon. He frowned a little when he saw that its point was blunted where it had struck the floor. 'I shall have to sharpen it tomorrow', he said to himself. He rallied his spirits. 'And then it shall be as good as new', he told himself. 'Certainly better than any broken sword!'

Stubbornly ignoring the ache in his shoulder, Boromir considered returning to his bed, but dawn was breaking and he decided to pack his kit for the patrol he would be leading later that day.

In Imladris, Gandalf was packing as well. Now that he had seen to Legolas's safe return, he would be on his way again. He had put aside for only a few days his journey to the Shire. After Bilbo's behavior the night the old Hobbit had departed the Shire, whenever the wizard had the opportunity he liked to check on Frodo, who had inherited Bilbo's peculiar ring. 'Perhaps', he thought to himself as he tossed a pouch of pipe weed into the sack he wore slung over his shoulder, 'perhaps after visiting Frodo I should return to Minas Tirith and search its library one more time for clues as to the true power of that ring'.

Aragorn was stirring, too. At the first light of dawn, he resumed his search for the creature that Gandalf had begged he hunt down and capture. If he succeeded in running it to ground, he would take it—

"—to Mirkwood," Elrond read aloud from the letter. "Yes, Glorfindel, I am afraid that Legolas has been recalled by Thranduil. As soon as the lad has recuperated from his injury, we must send him to rejoin his father."

"The twins will be disappointed," Glorfindel observed. "They return from patrol to find that Legolas has set out for Lothlórien. Then, Legolas comes back unexpectedly, but he is injured and so cannot ride out with them. Now, when he recovers, he must set out at once to Mirkwood."

"They may console themselves by journeying with Legolas to the Pass of Caradhras," Elrond replied. "When Mithrandir heard that the trails thereabouts were in poor repair, he insisted that they be shored up as soon as possible. He seems to think it urgent that that way be kept clear. Elrohir and Elladan may as well accompany the work party, which I mean to delay only long enough so that it may double as an escort for Legolas."

"That should mollify them somewhat," Glorfindel answered.

"Yes, and at the same time I shall mollify Mithrandir by sending a message by Legolas. Our dear wizard insists that Thranduil be urged to better secure his dungeons. I do not know why Mithrandir is so urgent on the matter, but I shall forward his advice."

The battle-hardened balrog slayer could not help himself: he smirked. "Thranduil will be _very_ pleased at being reminded that his dungeons have not always been escape proof," he chortled.

Elrond broke into a grin as well. Their guest, the Perian Bilbo, had told the story many an evening in the Hall of Fire: how he had crept about Thranduil's Great Hall, escaping detection on account of his nimbleness and small size; how he had stolen the keys one night from the sleeping gaoler and released thirteen dwarves; and how they had escaped by hiding in barrels that the elves themselves had helpfully pushed into the river that flowed out from underneath the Hall. Oddly, Gandalf always tried to shush Bilbo whenever he launched into the tale, so much so that Elrond suspected that there was more to the story than the Hobbit was letting on. Howsomever, one fact was undeniable: Thranduil would bridle at the suggestion that his dungeons were not capable of holding their inhabitants (albeit, since the escape of the dwarves, said inhabitants had been few and far between).

Still, Elrond reflected, after the Battle of the Five Armies the king of Mirkwood had grown to respect Gandalf, so no matter how much the king grumbled, he would no doubt follow the advice of the wizard and order that the dungeons be better secured. The cells would be suitable for whatever eventuality it was that Gandalf had foreseen

As Elrond was reflecting upon these matters, Gandalf, his preparations complete (for his kit was modest), was stopping by Legolas's chamber to bid the young elf farewell. "I'm off to the Shire," he told Legolas, "but you needn't look so disappointed. I am sure that we shall be thrown together again before too long. Meanwhile, behave yourself, young sir. Try to keep on the right side of the arrow!"

"I will, Mithrandir," Legolas promised. Suddenly he threw decorum to the wind. "Mithrandir," he demanded, "what are you hiding in the Shire?"

"I? _I _am hiding nothing in the Shire."

"What is hidden in the Shire?" Legolas amended.

"It is better that you not know."

"Do you not trust me?"

"It is not that I do not trust you. It is simply that I do not wish to put you in peril. Prematurely, that is," the wizard added with a rueful smile. "Be certain, my lad, that someday you and I shall stand shoulder to shoulder, with no more secrets between us. Others, including Estel, shall stand shoulder to shoulder with us."

Legolas nodded. He had long ago gleaned that Aragorn was somehow mixed up in Mithrandir's machinations.

"Do you know who the others are?" the young elf asked eagerly.

"Perhaps," Mithrandir replied noncommittally. "In any event, I think I know how many will join us in the endeavor—whatsoever that endeavor may be!"

"Nine!" Legolas exclaimed. "There will be nine!"

"My lad, you are thinking more than is good for you, invalid that you are."

"'Tis my chest that was injured, not my brain!"

"Yes, but you are exciting yourself. Do lie back—there's a good lad."

"You are treating me like an elfling," Legolas complained, "and I am probably older than you."

"In years, you are indeed older than I am in my current form," Gandalf conceded. "But," he added cheerfully, "my beard is longer."

"Mithrandir, I will never _have_ a beard!"

"Exactly," smirked Gandalf.

Nonplussed, Legolas fell silent. He couldn't argue with Gandalf's logic because he couldn't divine what the logic was—assuming, of course, that there _was_ any logic behind Gandalf's reply. 'Remarkable how the enigmatic and the illogical skirt one another', the young elf grumbled to himself.

Now Gandalf arose and clapped his ridiculous pointed hat upon his head. He stood looking down at his young friend, who, his face suddenly woeful, did remind the wizard of an elfling at that moment. "My dear Legolas," he said aloud, "I would that I could keep you secret, keep you safe, as I once tried to do when you were even younger than you are now. But I cannot. I fear that an arrow to the chest will seem a trifling wound to you ere the end—for wounds to the heart are ever so much more painful."

With that, the Maia turned abruptly and strode from the room, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Legolas. Suddenly, the wizard stuck his head back into the room. "By the by, Legolas," he called, "if you encounter any dwarves, do try to be civil."

The head vanished, leaving Legolas even more confused than before. What did dwarves have to do with anything? "My skull hurts worse than my chest," he complained to Elrond when the latter came to check on his patient's progress. "When did it begin to hurt?" asked Elrond, concerned at this turn of events. "After I spoke to Mithrandir this morning," answered Legolas. "Ah," said Elrond, his concern dissipating as swiftly as it had arisen. "Conversations with Mithrandir often have that effect upon people," he observed calmly as he felt the pulse in Legolas's neck. "Moreover," he added as he looked beneath the bandages, "if you suffer no more than a headache whilst in Mithrandir's company, you may consider yourself lucky."

Legolas began to observe that Mithrandir had said something to that effect, but then he thought better of it. 'If Mithrandir means to include me on one of his missions', he said to himself, 'then I do not want to say anything to my elders that would disincline them to give me leave to accompany him'.

So Legolas concentrated on achieving at least the appearance of contentment during the fortnight that Elrond insisted he remain in the House of Healing, and he maintained the façade of calmness even when told that he had been recalled to Mirkwood by his father. 'As soon as I may', Legolas vowed to himself as he rode away from Rivendell, 'I will find a way to return so that I may be on hand to join Mithrandir in whatever task he needs must accomplish'.

For whatever the danger to his chest—or his heart—Legolas would never, ever flinch from standing shoulder to shoulder with Mithrandir and Aragorn. Watching the young elf as he vanished into the trees, Elrond sighed. "Mithrandir has not told me everything," he remarked to Erestor and Glorfindel, "but I deem that we are only a few turnings of the moon from the recrudescence of such evil as has not been seen since the downfall of the Dark Lord—if downfall it was. In company with Mithrandir, Legolas must confront this evil. For this mission our young friend has been preparing from the moment that Mithrandir found him wandering lost in the woods of our realm."

His own heart aching, Elrond returned to his chamber to await the dark clouds that would gather over Rivendell—and Middle-earth.


	17. Chapter 17: Once and Future Hero

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 16 of **_**Elf Interludes**_**: **_**Lasette-1982, ziggy3, Ne'ith5, Mystery Maiden 016, Elfinabottle, leralonde, **_**and **_**CAH**_**.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit**_** and **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**Æðelcund—'Noble Birth' (æðel 'noble' + cund 'birth' [from cynde]; Old English)**

**Arthadan—'Noble Man' (arth 'noble' + dan 'man'; Sindarin)**

**Eldarion—'Son of the Eldar' (Eldar 'Elves' + -ion 'son' [Aragon's son and heir]; Sindarin)**

**Gréneléaf—'Green Leaf' (gréne 'green' + léaf**** 'leaf'; Old English)**

**Grausam—'Cruel' (German)**

**Ísenscynn—'Iron Skin'; i.e., armored (ísen 'iron' + 'scynn' skin ['sc' pronounced like modern 'sh']; Old English)**

**Ísencund—'Iron Born' (ísen 'iron' + cund 'birth' [from cynde]; Old English**

**Ísenheard—'Iron Hard' (ísen 'iron' + heard 'hard'; Old English)**

**Ísenheorte séo níwan cennen—'Ironheart the newly begotten' ([from cennan]; Old English) **

**Ísenhelm—'Iron Helm' (ísen 'iron' + helm 'helmet'; Old English)**

**Ísenscúr—'Iron Storm'; i.e., shower of arrows or shower of iron missiles (ísen 'iron' + scúr 'shower' ['sc' pronounced like modern 'sh']; Old English)**

**Laiqualassi—'Green Leaves' (pl. of Laiqualassë [laiqua 'green' + lassë 'leaf']; Quenya)**

**scop—'poet' (cf. 'shaper' ['sc' pronounced like modern 'sh']; Old English)**

**Sklave—'Slave' (German)**

**Episode 17: The Once and Future Hero**

Legolas kept his eyes closed, pretending to be unconscious while he cautiously tried his bonds. Yes, there was some give, enough so that, if he flexed his wrists and ankles, he would eventually be able to wriggle free. Satisfied, the elf lay still but opened his eyes. He was hungry and thirsty. He might as well eat a meal at his captors' expense before slipping away.

"The pointy ear is awake," announced one of the brigands, banging down his stein.

"Better feed and water him," replied a second man. No doubt the leader, he wore fur at his collar and his wrists, as well as a gold chain around his neck. "You there," he gestured at a boy, "give him a bowl of stew."

The lad was skinny and ill clad. Legolas guessed he was a servant or slave rather than a member of the band entitled to share in the loot. The youth carefully slipped past the leader to the fireplace, ladled stew into a bowl, and carried it to the elf. He placed it on a low stool and stood holding a wooden spoon, staring at the elf as if uncertain what to do next. Legolas shifted himself to sit up and smiled encouragingly at the boy. The boy hesitated for a moment but then smiled back and slipped the wooden spoon into one of the elf's bound hands. Legolas nodded his thanks.

"Sklave!" shouted the leader. "Hurry up! I want more beer."

The boy turned abruptly and hurried back past the leader, but not quickly enough to escape the kick that the ruffian aimed at the lad's legs.

Behind him, Legolas forced himself to swallow the shreds of rancid meat and the lumps of mealy potatoes that floated in the stew. As he ate, he listened carefully to the men, who seemed oblivious to the fact that the elf might understand the Common Speech. Of course, Legolas had encouraged this misapprehension, for from the moment of his capture, he had pretended ignorance of the tongue used when folk of different races came together to trade.

Legolas had already learned much of the men's plans during the time he had pretended to be asleep. Now he listened as the leader—Grausam he was called—reviewed their plans. "We start at Staddle," he proclaimed. "From thence we go to Bree, then Combe. We finish in Archet. Afterward, it's off to the forest of Far Chetwood to count our loot. Remember! We raid only the principle dwellings and shops and seize only the most valuable items. If we stop too long in any one place, one of those Breelanders may escape to warn the next village."

Legolas finished the stew and looked appealingly at the lad, who had returned carrying a small keg of beer. The elf gestured with his bound hands to his dry lips. The boy swiftly glanced at Grausam, but the leader was absorbed in a game of cards. Moving quietly, the boy brought the elf a cup of water. "You are ill named," Legolas whispered to him in the Common Speech. "I name thee Arthadan, Noble Man."

The boy widened his eyes at hearing the elf address him in a tongue that he could understand, but he said nothing, merely nodding almost imperceptibly.

It was growing dark now. As the men checked their weapons, Legolas once again pretended to sleep. "What about the prisoner?" he heard one of the men say.

"He'll be no problem," Grausam answered. "He's done nothing but sleep since we grabbed him. You, Sklave! It will be your skin if that pointy ear ain't where we left 'im when we get back!" Judging from the sound, this threat was accompanied by a slap.

The men tromped from the ramshackle cottage, a dwelling abandoned when the soil of the surrounding fields had been exhausted by a profligate homesteader. Soon the hoof beats of horses could be heard as the brigands set off toward Staddle. After the sounds had faded away, Legolas opened his eyes, sat up, and began to flex his wrists. Arthadan crossed over to the elf. "Let me help you," he said. Quickly he untied the elf's hands. Then as Legolas rubbed his wrists, the boy untied the elf's ankles.

"Thank you, Arthadan," Legolas said gratefully. Arthadan held up a length of rope. "Now you must tie my wrists," the boy said. "My ankles as well. I shall tell them you slipped your bonds and overpowered me."

"I shall not tie you," Legolas said.

Arthadan looked distressed. "But if they believe you overpowered me, they will not beat me nearly as badly as they will otherwise!"

"They will not beat you at all," Legolas replied. He grinned at the boy's confusion. "They can't beat you if they can't catch you—and they won't catch you because you will be with me!"

Arthadan looked doubtful. "They caught _**you**_!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, did they?" Legolas said enigmatically. "Not all elves in captivity have been captured. Now, where have they stowed my weapons?"

Arthadan brought the elf his weapons and made a bundle of his own few possessions. Then boy and elf left the cottage.

"Where are we going?" Arthadan asked.

Legolas pointed to copse within an easy walk. "Mae govannen," called a voice as they reached it. A man dressed in travel-stained garments stepped out from behind a tree. "Aragorn," Legolas said urgently, "you were mistaken about those men. They do not in fact make for Buckland. Their target is Breeland, and they will strike first at Staddle. Your folk must cease trailing them and hasten to engage them."

The man whom Legolas had addressed called something over his shoulder, and suddenly a company of men materialized before Arthadan's wondering eyes. "Halbarad, you will see to it?"

"Aye, Aragorn. Shall we leave survivors?"

"Spare the lives of those that throw down their weapons and beg for mercy. But extract from them a promise that they will journey to Gondor and take service as foot soldiers in defense of Minas Tirith."

"If Gondor will have them," Halbarad said grimly.

"Gondor will soon welcome any man who can hold a sword, no matter how lowly his status," Aragorn replied.

Halbarad and his Rangers led horses out from the copse and galloped after the brigands. They were soon nearly lost to sight, and Arthadan did not doubt but that they would soon overtake his former masters. As he gazed after the Rangers, Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder.

"I see that you are a friend of Legolas—and you are therefore my friend as well. Come sit by the fire and tell me about yourself."

Soon Legolas, Arthadan, and Aragorn were seated by a campfire, and Legolas was eating a second supper, one much more satisfying than the earlier one. Arthadan, too, was given a generous serving of fresh venison and bread that was three-days old but well kept.

"They did not hurt you, Legolas?" Aragorn asked as they ate.

"No. As I predicted, Aragorn, they were careful not to harm me. They might not have been so gentle to a man, but an elf is exceptionally valuable."

Aragorn grimaced. He hoped that someday he would have the power to prevent the selling of slaves, whether human or elven. The odious practice was legal nowhere, but neither the King of Rohan nor the Steward of Gondor had the power to stop Southron traders from dangling coin-filled pouches in front of failed farmers and bankrupt tradesmen. These all too often left their farms and shops to become brigands.

"Nevertheless," he said aloud, "you were brave to allow them to take you—although it must be said that you gathered invaluable news as a result of your sham surrender."

Arthadan gaped. Legolas winked at him. "I told you," the elf said, grinning, "that not all elves in captivity have been captured."

"You were riddling,' Arthadan said.

"Of course," Legolas said airily. "And here is another one: all that is gold does not glitter. That applies to more than one member of this company."

Arthadan looked eager. "I knew Halflings like riddles. I did not know the Fair Folk were fond of them as well."

"We also like good food and song," Legolas said, reaching for another piece of bread. "And stories," he added. "We like stories. _**You**_ must have a story, Arthadan."

"It is not a very entertaining story," Arthadan said unhappily.

"A story may be significant even if not entertaining," Aragorn interjected. "That has certainly been the case with _**my**_ kinsfolk—by the by, your name, Arthadan, is a noble one."

"I do not know that a slave deserves a noble name," Arthadan said hesitantly.

"Regardless of your former condition, you are no slave now," Legolas reassured him. "And you have proved yourself compassionate and brave, willing to suffer a beating—possibly worse—so that I might escape. Yes, it is plain that you _**are**_ Arthadan. Now tell us your story, for we must be ready to move on when Halbarad and his warriors return. How did you come to be with those men?"

"They stole me," said Arthadan. Legolas nodded. He had guessed as much.

"How old were you?"

"Five. I remember holding up my whole hand whenever anyone asked me how old I was."

"What else do you remember?"

"I had a mother and a father, but there were others about. We lived in a camp. It was colder than it is hereabouts."

"Do you remember anything about your father—his name, his occupation?"

"I remember sitting by him as he repaired harnesses and other bits of tackle. He had a limp, and he couldn't accompany the men when they went out hunting."

Aragorn had been listening carefully, but suddenly his interest in the boy's story grew markedly.

"I remember my mother had a very big belly. I know now she must have been pregnant."

"These men, did they steal you from the camp or from somewhere else?" Aragorn interjected.

"They stole me from a wagon. My father put all our goods in a wagon. He said we would settle in a village and that he would be a blacksmith. We had traveled for several days when suddenly those men leaped out from behind trees and attacked us. One of them got hold of my arm and pulled me from the wagon. He ran into the forest and threw me across his horse and galloped off. I never saw my mother and father after that. The brigand took me to a camp, and soon the other men joined us there. They were swearing dreadfully and seemed very angry. I don't think they got everything they wanted."

"We stayed at this camp for a few days. Then one day a robber came running into camp very frightened and cried that they were being hunted. The leader, Grausam, swore and said that they should have to break camp. Some of the men looked hard at me and said they ought to kill the brat, for now they shouldn't be able to rendezvous with the slave-traders that they expected in a few days' time. Grausam said I might be useful after all and they shouldn't kill me yet. That is the one time he protected me, but you may be sure he didn't do it out of kindness!"

"That day we broke camp, and we have moved about from place to place ever since. From the day of my capture, the men had put me to work—fetching water, gathering sticks for the fire—and by the time the men did meet up with the traders, they had gotten used to having a servant. Besides, by then they had other captives to sell, and I was still small enough not to be worth much had they chosen to part with me."

"How long ago were you captured?" asked Aragorn.

"Seven years ago," Arthadan answered. "I tallied the years by counting every New Year's feast. The men always kept that feast—as they did any other occasion that gave them an excuse to carouse."

"So you are twelve or thereabouts. Do you remember your name?"

The boy looked distressed. "I remember everything clearly from the day of my capture onward," he said unhappily. "And I remember a little bit from before that. But the robbers never called me anything but 'Sklave'. One day I tried to remember what my name had been, and I found I was no longer sure. It began with an 'A', of that I am certain. It is the letters that follow that are a blur."

"Regardless of your name," Aragorn said, "I was right. Your story is indeed a significant one. Now you must rest. Legolas and I will check the perimeter of the camp."

Legolas knew this to be an unnecessary precaution, so he understood that Aragorn wished to discuss something out of the boy's hearing. He arose and followed Aragorn until they were out of Arthadan's earshot. Aragorn looked unusually excited, especially as his carriage was generally that of the stoic Ranger. "That boy really _**is**_ Arthadan," he exclaimed.

"Yes, that is a good name for him," Legolas agreed.

"No, he _**really**_ is Arthadan," Aragorn repeated.

"Now you riddle, Aragorn. Explain yourself."

"Legolas, seven years ago one of Halbarad's cousins gave up the life of a Ranger. He settled in Archet and took up the blacksmith's trade. You have seen this man, for on several occasions you have accompanied me to his forge when I had buckles and other trap in need of repair."

"Yes, I remember him. He has a withered leg. Oh! A lame blacksmith!"

"Aye," said Aragorn, grinning. "A lame blacksmith. Ísenhelm's leg was injured in a skirmish with Orcs. When it became plain that the leg would never regain its strength, he made himself useful about the camp, and perhaps he would have continued to dwell in the wild, had he not married a woman from Breeland. She willingly left her comfortable abode and bore him a fine son, but her second infant and her third died in the womb, for their mother had never fully recovered from the birth of her first child. When she became pregnant a fourth time, Ísenhelm decided that they would remove to Archet, where she had kin. He believed, no doubt rightly, that the rigors of life in camp would never permit her to bring another child to term. They had few possessions, but what they had he packed in a wagon, and he and his wife and his child set out for Archet. His wife's uncle was a smith. He was agéd and had no son, and he was looking for someone to take over his forge."

"On their journey, they traveled on the North-South Road, making for the crossroads where it meets the Great East Road. They meant to stop in Bree before turning north again to journey on the well-traveled path to Archet. Had they wished to travel as the crow flies, they would have made their way through the Chetwood, striking directly east from the North-South Road. However, even then Chetwood was inhabited by brigands, so they avoided that forest. Alas! Their precautions did not save them. At a spot where the Chetwood came up to the very edge of the North-South Road, robbers lay in wait and attacked them. Even with his maimed leg, Ísengard was able to hold the brigands off until another band of travelers, hearing the sounds of the attack, hurried to his assistance and joined him in driving away the miscreants. Sometime during the melee, however, their son vanished. It is certain that he was seized by the brigands. Lame as he was, Ísenhelm would have gone after them, but in her distress his wife went into labor before her time. Knowing that he would likely lose both wife and infant if they were not well tended, he went on to Bree. There they stopped at the Prancing Pony, where a certain innkeeper of our acquaintance saw that they were furnished with all that was needful. This kindly gentleman summoned the best midwife in Bree and paid her out of his own pocket."

Legolas smiled. On occasion Aragorn complained about the foolishness of Barliman Butterbur, and once Legolas had even heard the man grumble that the portly innkeeper only remembered his own name because people shouted it at him all day. Now, however, a note of affection could be heard in the voice of the weather-worn Ranger.

"The infant, a girl, survived," Aragorn continued, "as did her mother. Meanwhile, Ísenhelm sent a message to his kinsmen in the north. I was one of the Rangers who came and searched the Chetwood. But the trail had gone cold. It seemed that the brigands had fled the Chetwood and their new lair was not to be found. For several years after, I would join Halbarad in searching for his lost nephew, but we never discovered a trace of him. At last we concluded that the lad was dead or, worse, had been sold to the Southrons, and we gave up the search."

"How old was he when he was taken?"

"Five."

"And this was seven years ago?"

"Aye."

"Which would make him twelve."

"I am overwhelmed at your arithmetical acumen," Aragorn said dryly.

"What was his name?"

"Æðelcund."

"Noble Birth," translated Legolas. "And I named him Arthadan!"

"Same story, different versions, and all are true," said Aragorn, quoting an old proverb.

Legolas nodded. "A five-year-old boy whose name began with 'A' is traveling in a wagon with his pregnant mother and his lame father, who is to take over a smithy," the elf recited. "The wagon is attacked by brigands and the boy seized. The lad would now be twelve. You are right, Aragorn. Arthadan must be Ísenhelm's son and Halbarad's nephew."

"Now the story must be told to Halbarad," Aragorn said. Legolas grinned. "I shall fashion a prelude for that tale," he said cheerfully.

They returned to the fire, where the lad had dozed off. Aragorn and Legolas had agreed that for now, until matters had been explained to Halbarad, they would continue to address the boy as Arthadan. Legolas gently shook his shoulder. "The water in the kettle is still warm," he said. "Wash your face."

Apparently it had been seven years since anyone had instructed Arthadan to wash. As he cautiously daubed at his face, his skin lightened by several shades. When Arthadan had finished washing his face, Legolas pulled a comb from his pack and carefully untangled the lad's hair, using his knife to cut out the worst of the knots. When he finished, he pulled a spare tunic from his pack. "If you roll up the sleeves, this garment will do," he said to Arthadan.

As Arthadan pulled off his old, threadbare tunic, Aragorn's face darkened when he saw the welts across the boy's back. "I am reconsidering my decision to spare the lives of those men," he said softly to Legolas. The elf put a restraining hand on his arm. "Mercy is never a mistake," he whispered back. "Remember how Mithrandir always says that about Bilbo's sparing of that peculiar creature who tried to murder him when he was lost beneath the Misty Mountains?"

Aragorn nodded and relaxed his tensed muscles. Just then Halbarad and his men materialized. Halbarad opened his mouth to report on the skirmish, but then he caught sight of Arthadan, clad in a clean tunic, his face washed and his hair trimmed,. "Ísenhelm!" he cried in surprise. The Ranger quickly recovered his countenance. "I am sorry," he said brusquely to the boy. "You reminded me of someone who when young looked as you do now."

Arthadan hardly seemed to notice Halbarad's apology. "Ísenhelm," he murmured. "Ísenhelm." He looked as if he were trying to remember something

"Arthadan," Legolas said, "tell Halbarad your story. He will find it as interesting as we did."

Arthadan shook off his reverie and recited his story. When he finished, Halbarad the dour Ranger was smiling happily. "Æðelcund," he exclaimed. "Æðelcund!"

Arthadan's eyes widened. "Æðelcund son of Ísenhelm," he exclaimed. "Æðelcund son of Ísenhelm," he repeated. "Son of Ísenheard son of Ísenscúr son of Ísenscynn. I remember my Da chanting those names. He said I was to have a new name, though."

"He has a new name himself. In Archet folk have taken to calling him Hamfast Smith. It seems they could not properly pronounce Ísenhelm and so they renamed him with something they could wrap their mouths around."

"Home-fast Smith," translated Arthadan. "The smith who stays to home. He does not range about."

"No, with four children, he would hardly be one to wander. And now you are recovered, he will have five!"

"No, he won't," Arthadan said simply. "I am not a child. I am used to doing a man's work."

Halbarad looked him up and down. "You are not over large," he said slowly, "but you hold yourself like a warrior."

"Or a smith," Legolas said. "His father is very strong. I have seen him. No warrior wields his sword more powerfully than Ísenhelm wields his hammer."

But Arthadan was gazing worshipfully at Halbarad. A little later, as they rode with Halbarad and Arthadan toward Archet, Legolas said softly to Aragorn, "I think Ísenhelm did well in naming the lad Æðelcund rather than Ísencund. Arthadan will never become an ironsmith, but he will bravely wield weapons forged in his father's smithy."

Aragorn looked ahead to where Arthadan rode on a borrowed horse beside his uncle Halbarad. "He sits his horse well for one who until today had little opportunity to ride," he observed. "He is a natural horseman, and as you have discovered, brave as well. I think there is something to what you say, Legolas."

"Thank you," Legolas said dryly. "I am glad there is _**something**_ to what I say. Is that a species of what men call 'damning with faint praise'?"

"You should have been a scop," Aragorn answered. "To you each word is a jewel that must be carefully bestowed in its proper setting."

"Would you expect otherwise?" Legolas replied insouciantly. "I am an elf, and we elves hoard words the way dwarves hoard gold."

"Yes, and like an elf you arrange your words as carefully as you arrange your hair," Aragorn said with a smile. "You notice that _**I**_ didn't have a comb in my pack—nor an extra tunic, neither!"

"I wonder how you will manage when you are king," Legolas retorted with equal cheer. "You will have to let someone trim that mane if you are to have any hope of fitting a crown upon that head of yours. Tell me: did I not do a good job of trimming Arthadan's hair? Perhaps you should let me have a go at yours."

"I would sooner have an Orc trim my nails," Aragorn shot back.

"It would _**take**_ an Orc to trim your nails!"

In this fashion the two friends bantered the miles away. Ahead of them, however, Arthadan continued in earnest conversation with his uncle Halbarad.

The next morning they entered Archet, having camped on its outskirts the night before. They made straight for the forge. Beside it was a cottage in good repair that was substantially larger than most of the dwellings they had passed. Apparently Hamfast Smith had done well for himself.

As the travelers drew up before the cottage, a woman came out with a bucket, making for the well. When she saw the travelers, she began to greet them, but then she spied Arthadan. She dropped her bucket and cried, "Ísenhelm!" A man limped hastily from the cottage. He had a staff but he brandished it as if it were a cudgel. When he saw the travelers, however, he lowered the weapon. He, too, stared in amazement at Arthadan. "Why, that lad looks like a grown-up version of Æðelcund," he exclaimed. "He could be our little Hamfast's older brother." As he spoke, a boy of about five appeared in the doorway. Named after his father, his face was sooty and he clutched a small hammer in his fist.

"He could indeed be your little Hamfast's older brother," Halbarad said calmly as he dismounted. "In fact, he _**is**_ your little Hamfast's older brother. Ísenhelm, we return to you Æðelcund, although I believe he will henceforth be known as Arthadan."

Ísenhelm dropped his staff and opened his arms. After a moment's hesitation, Arthadan stepped forward and allowed himself to be hugged. Watching, Legolas knew that sadness must be mingled with the joy of this reunion. Seven years could not be wished away. Arthadan would be Ísenhelm's son, but he would never be his child.

The awkward hug concluded, Ísenhelm's wife bestowed upon Arthadan kisses that were received with equal diffidence. Then Ísenhelm picked up his staff and begged all of them to come inside. Soon they were seated at a large oaken table and being showered with food and drink by the grateful couple. In the midst of the feast, someone knocked upon the door. It was a farmer who had a mouldboard with a broken ploughshare. "Your pardon," Ísenhelm said, arising and retrieving his staff from where he had placed it against the wall. "It is planting time, and such repairs cannot wait." His guests nodded their understanding, and Ísenhelm limped from the cottage. By his side scampered little Hamfast, still clutching his hammer.

"Your younger son is eager to take his place in the forge," Halbarad said to Ísenhelm when the smith and the lad returned from the forge. "Yes," Ísenhelm said proudly. "I have made him a set of little tools, and he likes nothing better than to play alongside me in the smithy, banging on his tiny anvil as I fashion hinges and ploughshares on mine. He has already begun to help me by handing me tools and toting water and coals in a small bucket. He is my apprentice in deed, if not in name. Of course," Ísenhelm added hastily, looking at Arthadan, "I don't lack work. There is room for two apprentices in my forge!"

Arthadan, who had finished eating and was now in a corner examining Halbarad's bow, somewhat absentmindedly nodded his acknowledgement of his father's words, but he seemed more intent on his examination of the weapon, raising it, drawing the string, sighting an imaginary target.

"But if you had only one apprentice, you could manage, I reckon," Halbarad said. Ísenhelm sat in silence for several minutes, watching as his oldest son set aside the bow and drew Halbarad's sword from its sheath and weighed it in his hand. "I should not be sorry," he said at last, "if the line of Rangers did not end with me."

Suddenly Arthadan slid Halbarad's sword back into its sheath and came to stand before his father. Halbarad arose. "I see Aragorn has gone outside to smoke his pipe," he said. "I believe I shall join him."

Legolas, too, found that he was obliged to go outside. "If you would show me to the necessary," he said to little Hamfast, "I should be very grateful."

By then Arthadan's mother had retired to a bedchamber to nurse her youngest son, and her second-oldest child, the daughter she had been carrying when Arthadan was stolen, was in the loft helping her three-year old sister change into her nightdress. Ísenhelm and Arthadan were alone together in the kitchen. Ísenhelm patted the settle. "You needn't stand beside me like a child awaiting instruction, Arthadan," he said calmly. "I pray you: sit beside me so that we may converse."

Appreciative at having received an invitation rather than a command, Arthadan sat down beside his father. He looked around the comfortable room. It had a large fireplace that drew well, and upon its mantle rested iron vessels doubtless fashioned in his father's forge. In the outer walls were set several windows filled with glass panes instead of the sheets of oiled paper that were common in the cottages of the less prosperous. In one corner was a large cupboard from which Arthadan had seen his mother remove pitchers and mugs and plates. "This is a fine room," he said. "It is a good place for a child," he added.

Ísenhelm nodded and waited for Arthadan to continue.

"It is a good place for a child," Arthadan repeated. "But I am not that child," he continued.

"That is true," Ísenhelm agreed. "You cannot become again the Æðelcund who was stolen from us. Your noble birth took place long ago. Today you are a noble man. Am I right in guessing that you wish to go with Halbarad and become a Ranger?"

"Yes, father. I hope that such a step will meet with your approval."

"Arthadan, I shall be proud that one of my sons carries on the profession of my youth, just as I shall be proud that one shall carry on the profession of my later years."

Suddenly Arthadan threw his arms around his father, and the hug was not feigned. In his gratitude, for one moment Arthadan was indeed Æðelcund. His father kissed his head. "You will go with my blessing," he said softly.

That night, while the household slept, Ísenhelm forged a sword. Some said that it was the finest sword ever made in that smithy, or, indeed, in all of Breeland. Ísenhelm named it Ísenheorte séo níwan cennen, and he engraved its name—Ironheart the newly begotten—on the blade. As Ísenhelm formally presented his son with the blade in the presence of the entire village, he stood straight and tall, his staff nowhere in sight. "I should be proud if Arthadan son of Ísenhelm would honor me by carrying this sword into battle," he proclaimed.

Arthadan and his companions stayed two weeks in Archet. During that time Arthadan spent several hours each day practicing with his sword. Aragorn, Halbarad, and Legolas took turns serving as his sparring partner. When not working at his swordsmanship, the young man practiced archery with a bow acquired from an old man who had given up hunting and was willing to trade the weapon for new shoes for his draught horses. Meanwhile, the village cobbler was commissioned to craft a sheath for Arthadan's new sword as well as a hanger for a knife that Halbarad presented his nephew. Arthadan's mother altered Legolas's tunic so it would better fit her son, and Aragorn went out hunting and traded a deer carcass for a good wool blanket and an excellent cloak, both absolute necessities for a Man of the North.

At the end of the fortnight, the travelers departed. Halbarad and Arthadan rode north to rejoin Halbarad's company. Aragorn and Legolas made for Rivendell, where they would rendezvous with Gandalf, to whom they had promised a report on Breeland and its environs.

"Since you have joined Halbarad's company, we will be sure to meet from time to time," Legolas told Arthadan before they parted. "Halbarad is Aragorn's kinsman, and I am Aragorn's friend and foster-brother. I am often in Aragorn's company when he seeks out Halbarad and his Rangers."

"I am glad to hear that we are likely to meet again," Arthadan said. "And I hope that at one of our meetings I shall be able to repay you for your kindness in rescuing me from that band of ruffians."

"If you wield a sword by the side of Halbarad, that will be payment enough," Legolas replied. "For his enemies are my enemies."

Legolas clasped Arthadan on the shoulder and then sprang on his horse to ride after Aragorn.

_As he fought before the Gates of Mordor, Gimli was forced to abandon the game of counting his fallen foes. While he was cutting the legs out from underneath one orc, another one swung its sword at him. Grunting, the Nauga dispatched this second foe with a blow to the groin, but then a third orc charged him. Pressed inexorably, Gimli was in danger of being cut off from his comrades._

_Legolas saw his friend's peril and tried to cut his way toward him. In the heaving mob, there was no chance of getting off a bowshot, so Legolas could only hope that he would be able to reach his friend before the dwarf was overwhelmed by his enemies._

_He was still a rod away from Gimli when a swarm of orcs completely surrounded the Nauga. Gimli fended off the one directly in front of him, but an orc behind him raised his scimitar. Legolas shouted a warning but his cry was lost in the din of battle. In despair, Legolas watched as the scimitar began its descent—and went wide of its mark. The orc stood a moment with mouth agape and then crumpled. As the creature collapsed, Legolas saw that behind it had stood Arthadan. _

_For a moment elf and man locked eyes. Then Arthadan wrenched his sword Ísenheorte free of the orc's body and began to fight back to back with Gimli. Legolas, too, returned to the battle. A troll was lumbering toward Aragorn, and Legolas now began to cut his way toward his other friend._

_After the battle, Arthadan and Legolas met as the elf assisted injured men to tents that had been erected several hundred feet from the edge of the battlefield. "Le hannon," Legolas said gratefully. The young man smiled. "Gimli is your friend, Legolas—and he is therefore my friend. On your account alone I would have come to his aid. But I also acted to avenge my uncle Halbarad," he continued, turning somber, "It was an orc who slew him on the Field of Pelennor. We had been driven apart, he and I, and on that day I could do nothing. I am glad today I could do something."_

_The man emphasized the last word. Legolas smiled. "I think there is something to what you say, Arthadan," he remarked. "Quite a lot, really," he added. He looked over the young man, who was splattered with gore. "Your tunic is past saving," he observed. "Like all Rangers, you are very hard on your clothes! Come: I have a spare tunic in my pack."_

"_Still?" said Arthadan. "And a comb, too, I'll warrant."_

"_Yes, I __**do**__ happen to have a comb in my pack," Legolas said, laughing now. "Do you want me to unknot the tangles in your hair?"_

_Arthadan joined him in laughing, and Legolas saw a flash of Æðelcund_ _in his now-bearded visage. "I will gladly accept the tunic, Legolas," the young man grinned, "but you leave my hair be! Aragorn has pledged that he will allow himself to be groomed on behalf of his kinsfolk. The rest of us mean to remain Men of the North."_

"_So you will not settle in Minas Tirith?"_

_Arthadan shook his head. "There is still much fighting to be done if the King's authority is to be recognized in all the lands where it formerly held sway. Brigands roam the north. We Rangers know the land well, and we mean to root out all who prey upon the villages and farmsteads in that region. Besides, in Archet, there is a girl—"_

_Here Arthadan broke off, and his beard could not hide his blush._

"_Are you certain," teased Legolas, "that you do not want me to trim your hair—aye, and your beard, too? If you try to kiss this girl, you want her to be able to find your mouth!"_

"_That has not been a problem," Arthadan shot back cheekily as he recovered himself. "If you want to know the truth, her mother trims my hair every time I visit Archet."_

"_Her family approves of you, then. Good. Now let us go to my tent so that you can bathe and change tunics."_

_Striding side by side, the two went to a tent that had been erected for the use of Legolas and Gimli. The dwarf grumbled as Arthadan washed and changed. "You are an ill influence, Legolas. Next he will be combing his hair."_

_In fact, Arthadan carried a comb in his own pack, and to the disgust of the dwarf he pulled it out and set about untangling both his hair and his beard. "I'm going outside to have a smoke," the dwarf announced huffily. "Next you know, you two will be sprinkling yourselves with perfume!"_

"_How does your family fare, Arthadan," Legolas asked after the young man had completed his toilet._

"_Very well," he answered. "My Ma had one more child. She swore it would be the last, and she was right. Several years have passed, and I think she is past the time when her womb can quicken with life. She is not sorry!"_

"_And your father?"_

"_He has been chosen head of the village," Arthadan said proudly. "He presides at all the feasts and judges disputes between villagers, and he represents the village whenever there are agreements to be forged with the neighboring settlements with regards to road repairs and suchlike."_

"_And now he will receive the King's messengers, too," Legolas observed. "He will have a great many responsibilities."_

"_He will fulfill these new duties ably, especially as my brother is such a great help to him so that he is free to see to matters outside the forge." Arthadan laughed. "Everyone calls my brother Little Hamfast, but in truth, he has grown into a great bear of a man, with the arms of a blacksmith. He does most of the jobs now, and his skill has impressed the miller, so that he is very welcome when he comes visiting the miller's daughter. The miller's second daughter, I mean, as the elder daughter—"_

_Here Arthadan paused and flushed again._

"_It seems that the Smith family will never want for bread," laughed Legolas._

_Arthadan arose. "Bread, yes. I am to break bread with my company come dusk. Legolas, if you are ever in Archet, you must stop at the forge. There will always be a bed and a supper awaiting you. And for Gimli, there will always be pipe weed."_

_Legolas arose and the two clasped each other on the shoulder. "I shall certainly stop at the forge whenever I am in Archet," the elf promised. With a final quick smile, Arthadan released his grip on Legolas's shoulder and departed._

"**Are you sure we will be welcome," Gimli said, looking at the imposing house. "You described a cottage. This ain't no cottage, and I misdoubt its folks may be too fine to welcome bedraggled strangers."**

**It had been raining hard the entire day, and it was true that Legolas and Gimli were drenched and muddy. Not even Legolas's preternatural cleanliness had been able to ward off the muck that splattered his boots and leggings.**

"**I am certain that we will be welcome," Legolas said confidently. "We will be well received on Arthadan's account."**

"**Lad, it is more than one-hundred and twenty years since Mordor fell. Arthadan will have passed on by now, and I don't reckon his kin will be expecting us. His promise of hospitality don't signify now he's dead."**

**Legolas ignored Gimli's protests and knocked on the door. A middle-aged man with a staff opened it, and for a moment Legolas thought he was looking at Ísenhelm.**

**The man looked inquiringly at the two travelers. "We hoped we might trouble you for lodgings," Legolas said. "We are tired, wet, and hungry."**

**The man looked them over carefully. "We don't usually take in strangers," he said, "but my Da was always particular that if an elf and a dwarf were to arrive at this door, they should be welcomed like kin. I always thought it was a proverb meaning that we should never welcome wanderers, as it didn't seem likely that such a pair would fetch up on our doorstep.** **Yet here you are, and I would not dishonor my father by turning you away."**

**The man stepped aside so that they might enter. Limping slightly, he led them into a warm, bright kitchen.**

"**Your leg is injured," Legolas said.**

"**Nothing that won't mend," the man said over his shoulder. "I twisted my ankle sparring with my son. The lad is set on journeying to Minas Tirith to enlist in one of its companies, and he dragoons me into serving as his foil whenever he practices his swordsmanship. He takes after his grandfather, that's certain. I am told that he served honorably during the War of the Ring. His name was Arthadan."**

"**Noble Man," Legolas translated. "He fought both at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and at the Battle of the Morannon, before the Gates of Mordor."**

"**You have heard of him," the man said delightedly as he set bowls of stew before his guests. The stew was, Legolas thought to himself, much better than the stew he had eaten on the day he had first met Arthadan. "What is your son's name," he asked.**

"**We named him Æðelcund at my father's suggestion," the man replied. "I had thought to name him Ísencund. Maybe if I had, he wouldn't be so set on giving up his place in the forge. Or I could have named him Hamfast, like his great-uncle, who was the smith before me and whose son Barley is now the miller. Of course, once my father presented the boy with that sword of his, like as not my son would still be pining to go for a soldier regardless of his name. That sword is like a talisman."**

"**Ísenheorte séo níwan cennen,"said Legolas. "Ironheart the newly begotten."**

**The man paused in the act of pouring mead. "You know a lot about my father," he said wonderingly.**

"**Yes, I believe I do," smiled Legolas. Beside him, Gimli pulled out a pipe. "Do you reckon I might smoke?" the dwarf asked hopefully.**

**In answer, the man went to a shelf and took down a small leather pouch. "My Da said to always keep this pouch filled with good tobacco for the dwarf," he said. "I thought it was of a piece with his instructions about welcoming an elf and a dwarf, but now I don't doubt but that there was a reason for his instructions."**

**He handed the pouch to Gimli.**

"**I will bring down a featherbed now. We don't have a spare room," he added apologetically. "The house is full of uncles and aunts and cousins on account of a wedding a fortnight from today. My oldest daughter," he added proudly. "Howsomever," he continued, "there is that one featherbed. I will lay it in front of the fire, and I'll see if I can find a blanket or two and some pillows."**

"**The featherbed will suffice," Legolas said quickly. "We have blankets in our packs. We don't wish to trouble you, as busy as you must be with preparations for the wedding feast. We will resume our journey early in the morning, and you needn't trouble yourself over furnishing us with breakfast. If we might be permitted to serve ourselves some bread and cheese on the morrow, we would be very grateful."**

"**Take what you need, and welcome," the man said, surprised. "You must plan to depart very early indeed."**

"**We do. We have many places to visit before we leave these parts for good. We will not be coming this way again."**

**The man nodded and climbed up some steps to fetch the featherbed. While he was gone, Legolas pulled out pen, ink, and parchment from his pack. When the man returned, Legolas was folding a missive. "You have been very kind to us," the elf said. "Pray: tell me your name before we part."**

"**I am called Gréneléaf," the man said. "It is rather an unusual name in my family. My father," he added with a smile, "made some odd choices in his life."**

"**It is a fine name, and I do not think it is odd at all. As for your father's choices, they must have been good ones or he would not have so generous a son."**

**Gréneléaf looked proud. Then he noticed the folded paper on the table. "Have you a letter needs posting, Master Legolas?"**

"**No, this is for your son. When he arrives in Minas Tirith, he must present it to the guard at the gate."**

**Gréneléaf picked up the letter. He gaped when he saw to whom it was addressed. "This is for the King—for Eldarion son of Elessar," he gasped.**

"**Yes," Legolas said calmly. "With that letter, and with the sword Ísenheorte, your son will be well received and will be given honorable employment."**

**Speechless, Gréneléaf managed a nod. He turned to climb back up the stairs.**

"**Master Gréneléaf," Legolas called. The man stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Legolas pulled a comb from his pack. "Give your son this as well," the elf said.**

"**A—a comb?" the man stammered.**

"**A Man of Gondor," the elf smiled," must be better groomed than a Ranger of the North."**

"**However did you know that my son's hair is tangled more often than not?" the man demanded. "Is it true, then, that elves have the Sight?"**

**Legolas shook his head. "A lucky guess," he laughed. "I have known two boys, and both of them had tangled hair. Good night, Master Gréneléaf!"**

"**Why didn't you tell him who we are?" Gimli asked the next morning as they rode away from the stately dwelling of Master Gréneléaf Smith.**

"**The Smiths of Archet will grow prosperous and staid, and there will be no room in their history for elves and dwarves," Legolas replied. "They will be a good folk, but prosaic. 'Respectable', I believe Bilbo would call them. In Gondor, however, the descendants of Æðelcund son of Gréneléaf son of Arthadan will be bold warriors and valued counselors. Eldarion will tell Æðelcund the story behind the sword Ísenheorte. Æðelcund will treasure both the tale and the sword, and both will be passed from father to son."**

**Legolas was right. Long after he and Gimli had departed the Grey Havens, the Laiqualassi, as Æðelcund's descendants were called by order of Eldarion, were numbered amongst the chief families of the realm. They fought in the defense of the realm during times of war, and advised the King during times of peace. Only when Gondor itself passed into legend did the saga of that folk come to an end—and maybe not even then, for some say the sword Ironheart has been seen flashing in the hands of many heroes, albeit sometimes under a different name. Some say that the blade was so strong that it could be thrust into stone so that only the strongest might draw it from its rocky sheath and wield it. Others say that Ísenheorte is impervious to rust and lies hidden at the bottom of a lake, to be proffered by an elven hand to the worthy in times of great need. 'Only the sword of Arthadan can save us now', people would murmur when times were worst, 'and only a man as noble as he can wield it'. Yet someone always came forth, sword in hand, to lead the people in fighting back evil, and so Arthadan became known as the Once and Future Hero, to be looked for whenever times were dark. Whether he were really a descendant of Arthadan, or Arthadan himself returned, no one knows, but so the people believed, and so the people endured.**


	18. Chapter 18: Small Things

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 17 of**_**Elf Interludes**_**:**_**Amiable Loner, CAH, Elfinabottle, gginsc, leralonde, Maiden, Ne'ith5, optigirl101, Pghj2005,**__** sazza-da-vampire,**__** vwbuba, **_**and**_**ziggy3**_**. Also, thanks to **_**Funrider239**_** for the review of Episode 16, which I didn't see until after I had already thanked the other reviewers of that episode.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**.**

**Episode 18: Small Things**

"We have to eat," Elrohir said coolly.

Legolas stood looking down at the deer, its sides heaving as it struggled to breathe, the young elf's arrow rising and falling with the motion of the deer's chest.

"We have to eat," Elrohir repeated.

Legolas did not seem to hear him.

"You will end its suffering," Elladan said softly.

Legolas came out of his reverie. He nodded, then drew his knife, knelt beside the deer, and swiftly cut its throat. Twitching for a few seconds more, the deer at last lay still, its eyes glazing over.

Legolas arose. "_**I**_ brought it down; _**you**_ dress it," he said abruptly to Elrohir before wheeling about and vanishing into a thicket.

Elrohir raised his eyebrows. "Whatever is troubling him?" he asked.

"Shall we ask our grandmother Galadriel?" Elladan said dryly. "It takes no prophetess to understand why Legolas is unhappy," he continued tartly as his brother shrugged. "Legolas does not like to cause pain, and he is such a good marksman that he can almost always avoid doing so. Today, however, he aimed ill."

"In the midst of battle, I hope he will not be so squeamish," Elrohir said carelessly, "especially if he is supposed to be watching my back! I do not want to be skewered by an orc whilst Legolas is indulging his scruples!"

Elladan pointedly ignored his twin's indifferent words but instead turned his attention to gathering firewood and filling their camp kettle. Elrohir, meanwhile, skinned and gutted the deer.

As for Legolas, he took shelter in a thicket, where he cleaned his blade and replaced it in its sheath. Then he quietly watched an army worm as it slowly crawled upon the forest floor, its body contracting and expanding as it inched forward. Suddenly an ichneumon wasp alit beside it. Legolas winced as the wasp probed the caterpillar and then stabbed it with its ovipositor. The eggs laid beneath the skin of the caterpillar would hatch and devour the still-living creature from the inside. "A horde of army worms can destroy a crop of wheat in the space of a day," the elf mused aloud, "so I suppose the destruction of that caterpillar should be accounted a beneficial act. Still," he continued, "why must the caterpillar perish in such a dreadful fashion?" The young elf shuddered and leaped to his feet, unwilling to watch further as the wasp crawled over the leaf litter toward a second caterpillar.

Legolas arose and went deeper into the forest until he came to a patch of mushrooms. He knelt beside them and studied them thoughtfully. They were edible. 'If only', he said to himself, 'we could subsist on the crops we raise and the mushrooms, roots, and berries we gather in the woods and meadows. We would never need to slay another deer! Or trap another rabbit or spear another fish!' After a moment he grimaced ruefully and shook his head. Scouts patrolled for weeks at a time and their responsibilities allowed them little rest. Legolas knew the warriors could neither carry sufficient provender nor spare the time to harvest it in quantities sufficient to satisfy the hunger of the young elves who ceaselessly patrolling the wastelands that bordered their territory. Permitting himself a small sigh, Legolas again got to his feet, this time setting out to rejoin his companions.

Back in the camp Elrohir suddenly heard footsteps near at hand. Thinking that either Elladan or Legolas had crept up on him, he grimaced. It bothered him that he was not as adept as his twin at hearing approaching footsteps. Elrohir and Elladan both had a moiety of human blood; perhaps, Elrohir worried, in him the blood of the Edain held greater sway than in Elladan. How else to account for the superiority of his brother's hearing—aye, and his vision, too? A more truthful explanation would be that Elladan simply paid better attention to his surroundings, but that notion Elrohir refused to entertain, even though if pressed he would have to concede that he had often been chided for heedlessness by his mentor Glorfindel.

The footfalls were heavier than either Legolas or Elladan's were wont to be, but Elrohir assumed that they were his foster-brother's, who doubtless was still troubled by the death of the deer and thus not moving with his usual grace. Unwilling to look up and betray that he had been discomfited, Elrohir kept his head down. "You walk like a man," he said with assumed carelessness.

"How very clever of you to notice," a human sneered in reply, and something sharp and cold pressed against the elf's throat. Elrohir did not need to see the object to know that the owner of the voice wielded a knife. Out of the corner of his eye, the elf saw another man step into the camp...and another... Soon a dozen humans milled about. The man who had surprised Elrohir, whose footfalls had seemed heavy to the elf, proved to have been quiet indeed when compared with his fellows. 'This is what an oliphaunt herd must sound like', Elrohir thought to himself as the men tromped through the camp, kicking over the kettle, rummaging through packs, tossing about weapons and tools. "Nothing of value save this elf," one of them grunted after they had finished rifling the camp.

"Would have been better pickings if you hadn't been so noisy," growled the first man to enter the camp, who was still holding a knife at Elrohir's throat. "See, there are three packs, but here is only one elf. But the other two will have heard us and fled."

"We'd better flee as well," said a third man. "Like as not they will bring back some of their fellows and try to rescue this one. Let us carry him off straightaway and collect our bounty. Then he will be his owner's problem, and we may spend our gold as we please."

His comrades readily agreed. They were happy to band together against a single elf but reluctant to stand in the face of several. They bound Elrohir's hands and tied a rope around his neck. Then slavers and captive moved out, making for the east. Elrohir walked as slowly as he dared, but the man holding the end of the rope fastened about his neck yanked on it whenever the elf began to trail behind the company.

As the raiders and their prisoner rapidly moved east, Legolas was approaching the camp. He walked more and more slowly as he neared it, for like Elladan he was in the habit of paying careful attention to his surroundings—and his surroundings cried 'danger!' The squirrels chattered frantically at him, and the birds scolded, flitting from branch to branch just ahead of him. The young elf crept to the edge of the camp and cautiously studied its wreckage. Once he had assured himself that the camp was abandoned, he broke cover and stepped into the clearing to examine the footprints left by the raiders. "At least twelve," he said grimly as Elladan at length joined him, equally cautious and equally grim. The two stood in the camp debating whether to return to Rivendell for help or to try to rescue Elrohir on their own.

"Glorfindel has always said that it is folly for the few to confront the many," Elladan observed gloomily.

"Always?" said Legolas. "It is true that I have heard him say that when confronted with an overwhelming force, it may be good to slip away and to delay battle until conditions are more favorable. Yet have you not also heard him say that a wise warrior will shift tactics at need?"

Elladan nodded his head.

"Yes," he agreed, his grief at the capture of his brother beginning to turn into resolve. "I have heard him say that. You think, then, that we should pursue the slavers ourselves rather than return to Rivendell to rally our kinsmen."

"If we return to Rivendell," replied Legolas, "we will be able to call upon the aid of other scouts. But while we do so, the slavers could travel beyond our reach or could rendezvous with other of their ilk so that any advantage we may gain by calling upon our kinsmen will be negated."

"True," said Elladan, who was now checking the tautness of his bowstring.

"Moreover," Legolas continued, "we are only two, but we can fight from cover, and slavers are usually better at thieving than fighting."

"I am persuaded, Legolas," Elladan said impatiently, sighting along an arrow to assure himself that the shaft was true. "While you are orating, our brother is being carried further away by the minute."

Legolas nodded. Leaving the wreckage of the camp, he and his foster-brother set out at a run, for the trail was easy to follow. "These brigands trample the vegetation as if they were orcs," Elladan exclaimed.

"Not orcs—trolls!" Legolas called in reply. "Look how wide a swathe they have felled!"

It was not long before Legolas sensed that they were nearing their quarry. The two elves slowed and listened carefully. Soon snapping branches proclaimed the progress of the brigands and their captive. Legolas and Elladan now set a pace that would keep them from drawing too close to their quarry. Darkness would be the best time to effect a rescue, for their elf eyes would give them an advantage, especially as it was the night of the new moon, when little illumination could be hoped for from that orb. The ability of the elves to see at night, and their pointed ears, were the reasons that the more superstitious among the humans called the Fair Folk _þá cattas_—the cats.

The sun had been low when Elladan and Legolas set out in pursuit of their brother's kidnappers. At length it grew too dark for the humans to continue their flight. When they stopped to make camp, Elladan and Legolas stole near to reconnoiter. Elrohir had been pushed to the ground and his ankles tied. One man had been told off to remain at the side of the captive. Elladan and Legolas exchanged glances. They both knew that slavers often slew their captives rather than permit them to be rescued. At the first sign that the camp was under attack, it was likely that the man crouched next to Elrohir would try to cut the elf's throat. Legolas could pick the brigand off, but the captive had been placed in the center of the camp. After the first shot, the brigands would spring to their feet, weapons in hand. In the chaos, could Legolas count on getting a second unobstructed shot? If another of the men tried to slay Elrohir, would Legolas be able to bring him down before he could complete the act?

Legolas looked all about, taking careful note of the position of each tree and even the thickness and height of the branches upon it. As he did so, he realized that a large wasp's nest was dangling from a branch that hung over the heads of several of the men. One man, reclining against his pack, was directly underneath the nest.

Legolas caught Elladan's eye and nodded in the direction of the wasp's nest. _A diversion_. The word was left unsaid, but both elves at once concurred upon a plan. Create chaos, but make it appear as if the confusion was caused by something other than an attack.

Elladan slipped away into the darkness. Legolas knew that his foster-brother would position himself so that the man guarding Elrohir would have his back to him. In the uproar that was soon to break out, the doomed brigand would look toward the fallen nest. It would only take a moment for Elladan to break cover and reach the man, and in the hubbub the man's death rattle would go unnoticed. Before any of the men in the camp were aware, Elladan would have dragged Elrohir to cover.

Legolas waited until he was sure that Elladan must be in position. One of the men was singing a ribald song, and his fellows were guffawing. Good. The noise would cover the twang of the bowstring and the hiss of the arrow. Legolas nocked the missile, slowly drew back the string, and aimed at the narrowing of the wasp's nest where it was attached to the branch. He released the arrow. Unnoticed by the men, it passed through the attachment of the wasp's nest, nearly severing it, and flew on, landing hidden in the forest beyond. The nest swayed slightly, and Legolas watched, satisfied, as what remained of the ligature, unable to bear the weight of the nest, slowly stretched until it tore free of the branch.

The plummeting nest struck the head of the man sitting beneath it, and he was knocked upon his back. He attempted to roll onto his stomach and push himself up by his hands and knees, but he was enveloped by wasps and before he had fully arisen he began to use his hands to swat frantically at the insects and so collapsed back onto the ground. The men nearest him took a step toward him, but the furious insects began to sting them as well, so they recoiled. Their attention was still riveted upon their comrade, however, and they did not notice as Elladan sprang from the forest and overcame Elrohir's guard. As was to be expected, the wretch was morbidly transfixed by the sufferings of his wasp-ridden fellow, and so without any difficulty the elf stifled the guard's mouth with one hand and with the other cut the brigand's throat. Then, seizing Elrohir's collar, Elladan practically threw his brother out of the camp and into the cover of the forest. Watching, Legolas was impressed by Elladan's display of strength, but now that Elrohir was safe, he quickly turned his attention to adding the sting of his arrows to the pain being inflicted by the wasps. He had shot three men before the others were even aware that they were under attack. Yelling, they swarmed toward their weapons, but Elladan, by then having reassured himself as to the condition of his brother, had also begun to fire into the clearing. Five more men fell. Three of them never came close to putting up a fight; a fourth had succeeded in reaching his bow but died before he could draw it; the last was sprawled with the fingers of an outstretched arm barely touching the hilt of his sword.

Only three men survived besides the wasp-ridden one who writhed upon the ground, and these three fled the camp, leaving behind their packs and their weapons. Legolas lowered his bow and stepped into the clearing. Elladan and Elrohir likewise emerged from the forest. Elrohir was massaging his wrists, which had been rubbed raw by his bonds. He was otherwise unhurt. "Thank you, my brothers," he said gratefully, putting aside any pretense of bravado. Legolas and Elladan clasped him on the shoulder and nodded acknowledgment. Then Legolas dropped his arm and walked over to the man who had been overcome by the wasps. A few of the insects were still crawling upon his twitching body, but most of the wasps, their agitation spent, were now swarming upon the tree, where some had begun to construct a new nest. Legolas knelt by the man and examined him. He doubted that the man's surviving fellows would return to tend to him. The elf quickly saw, however, that even if they did, the man was doomed. He had been stung too many times to survive, at least under the present circumstances. Had he been in Rivendell, perhaps Elrond would have been able to administer a potion to counteract the poison of the stings that covered every inch of the man's exposed flesh and that had indeed pierced his garments in many places. But they were far from home, and Legolas knew that even if they set out at once to carry the man to Imladris, he would not survive the journey.

Elladan came to stand by Legolas. Like Legolas, he knew that after battle it was accounted mercy to cut the throats of foes who yet lived but who were injured grievously. "I shall perform the office," he said softly. Legolas shook his head. "I believe," he said dryly, "that I am capable of showing at least as much mercy to a man as to a deer." He drew his knife and swiftly cut the brigand's throat. Twitching for a few seconds more, the man at last lay still, his eyes glazing over.

Sighing, Legolas sat back on his heels. "Sometimes it is said to be mercy to spare a man's life; sometimes it is said to be mercy to slay a man," he said thoughtfully.

Elladan spoke up. "It is not so difficult, Legolas," he offered. "We must always choose the action that lessens the burden of pain with which Arda is afflicted. You have so chosen."

"I know you are correct, Elladan," Legolas replied, "but I was thinking…."

"Don't," begged Elrohir, who had now joined them. "You are going to make yourself unhappy, as you did earlier today." Legolas smiled. Elrohir had just revealed, probably unintentionally, that he was more concerned about Legolas than he preferred to let on. Guessing at what Legolas was thinking, Elrohir blushed a little.

"I was thinking," Legolas continued, "that the case is not always so simple. Imagine for a moment that the welfare of a great many people could be secured by the sacrifice of one person. Let that person be innocent of any offense. Let that person be wholly unconnected to all but a few of the people who would benefit from his sacrifice. One could argue that it would lessen the burden of pain with which Arda is afflicted if that one person were sacrificed so that a great many other people could live in peace and happiness. But would such a sacrifice be just?"

"If the person _**chose**_ to make the sacrifice," Elladan said decidedly. "I don't think that those who would benefit have the right to insist that an innocent person be sacrificed on their behalf."

Legolas looked relieved. "So the person must volunteer. Yes, that would be proper. But no coercion, no, not even if one could argue that the greater good would be served if one person should suffer."

"Legolas," Elladan said curiously, "what in Middle-earth got you thinking about this subject?"

"Something Mithrandir said," Legolas answered.

"Why am I not surprised?" muttered Elrohir.

"What did he say?" Elladan went on, ignoring his twin, who seemed to have recovered his usual flippancy.

"He said that on certain occasions the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—or the one. And he said that this notion would prove to be no abstraction but a matter of great import in the councils of the Wise."

"Legolas," Elladan said anxiously, "you don't suppose Mithrandir would ever propose the unwilling sacrifice of an innocent for the benefit of Arda?"

His foster-brother shook his head. "Now you put it that way, I cannot believe that Mithrandir would countenance such a step. But I do wonder whether he foresees a struggle that would require the sacrifice of an innocent—and who that innocent would be."

"Well, it won't be _**me**_," Elrohir interjected.

"Oh, _**that**_ is certain," Legolas shot back, "for _**you**_ are no innocent!"

Elladan chortled, and Elrohir pretended to cuff his twin's ear. Then the three young elves sobered and set about performing one last unpleasant office before departing the camp. Foes the men might have been, but it was not the custom of the elves to leave the slain untended. To do so would be an offense against Arda. It had not rained in several days, so the elves feared to cremate the bodies lest the pyre set afire the forest; but they lacked the tools and time to inter the bodies. They settled upon laying the bodies side by side and heaping leaves and branches atop them. They knew that in the end scavengers and beetles would burrow into the makeshift cenotaph, but an impermanent as the "burial" was, it was better than no burial at all.

After bidding the souls of the men be at rest, Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir swiftly strode through the forest back in the direction of Imladris, for they were eager to report the brigands' incursion. By dawn they had arrived at their former camp, where they remained only long enough to retrieve their scattered kits. Then they resumed their journey, not stopping to rest until noon, when they briefly paused to eat a few strips of smoked venison, the deer Elrohir had been dressing before he was captured having been spoiled by scavengers during the time that it had taken to effect Elrohir's rescue.

A week later, the three young Elves were descending into the valley of Rivendell. There, to the delight of Legolas, they discovered that Mithrandir had arrived in their absence. After reporting the encounter with the brigands to Glorfindel, Legolas hurried to the chamber that was always kept in readiness for the wizard. "Hullo, my lad," Mithrandir greeted his protégé as if nothing were the matter. Legolas, however, could see that the Maia was mulling something over. Soon enough Mithrandir came to the point. "I should like you to return to Mirkwood straightaway," the wizard said urgently. "It may seem a small thing, but I've set Aragorn a task that, if he accomplishes it, may require the use of a lock hole in your father's redoubt. I want you to see to it."

"Those cells haven't been used since Thorin Oakenshield and his companions were locked up in them when they blundered into my father's domain."

"Yes, I know—and I wouldn't bring up that episode much if I were you."

"Why ever not?" wondered Legolas.

"Trust me. Not something you want to bring up in the future."

Legolas was used to the wizard's enigmatic speech and questioned him no further. "A small thing," the wizard kept repeating distractedly. "A small thing."

A year later Legolas returned Imladris only a few days after Frodo Baggins of the Shire was brought insensible into Rivendell. There the hobbit lay recovering until he was summoned to the Council of Elrond, where the matter of a ring was debated by the Wise. It was, as the man Boromir was later to declare, a strange fate that the free folk of Middle-earth should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing. Yet it was no less strange, perhaps, that so small a person as a Halfling from Hobbiton should be the one to put paid to that fear and doubt. Certainly it seemed strange to many at the Council that Frodo should become their champion. But among those who saw Frodo step forward and declare, "I will take the Ring—though I do not know the way," there were two who were not surprised. One was Gandalf, and the other—Legolas Thranduilion.


End file.
